


Lost and Found

by elimalfoy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:16:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elimalfoy/pseuds/elimalfoy
Summary: One file. One manila folder with three pieces of paper. One reference number for a series of memories in their vault.  One sparse description of the missing person, name, date of birth, description, and circumstances of their disappearance. And one recent photograph.All belonging to one Draco Lucius Malfoy.





	Lost and Found

At first, he hadn’t paid it much mind. He worked long hours, didn’t sleep much, and drank far too much coffee. A simple side effect of exhaustion, he’d decided. Maybe it had been some residual bit of Voldemort’s consciousness popping up after so many years. Maybe it was war related trauma, or however Hermione had explained it.

Because surely there was a rational reason why some invisible entity kept asking him for help.

He wasn’t even sure he’d heard anything the first few times. Then he was positive Ron or one of the other Aurors was just pulling his leg. It was so quiet, so faint, it was hardly there at all. And it was never more than a few words. “Help me,” or more often, simply, “help.” But then there were the times when he heard them say “please,” and it was so desperate, so poignant, he was positive someone was truly there, and in dire need of his help.

As the frequency of these “S.O.S” messages had increased, he’d all but prayed for them to stop. It was difficult to focus on the important things, specifically his job, when he was constantly searching for someone he’d never find. But then those days would come, and inexplicably, the silence made him even more uneasy.

If insanity wasn’t the precipitating event, it certainly was the resulting one. Every part of him screamed that he needed to find the source of the mysterious voice, because whoever they were, they must be desperate. Or worse, in terrible danger. And all he could do was sit and listen. He couldn’t find them, and he couldn’t help them. He couldn’t even respond.

He’d tried to research it, properly, the way Hermione would. He’d spent countless hours first in the Ministry library and then in what remained of the Black family’s private collection. But “disembodied voice,” as it turned out, yielded a hundred different explanations. In their magical world, the source could be everything from a curse to a very rare and rather bizarre illness. Yet none of them quite fit his circumstances.

At some point, he’d reminded himself that he was an Auror now, that he had extensive and advanced training in detective work. Surely two years of training and four more in the field were of some use.

He started at the beginning.

It had been a Monday morning, and like any Monday morning, he had arrived already in a foul mood, as did most of the building. It had been worse than the normal end of weekend moodiness a cup of coffee normally cured, though. It had been Seamus’s birthday, so the night before they’d all gone out and behaved like they were still teenagers. They drank like teenagers, danced like teenagers, and realized too late that they didn’t still hold their liquor like teenagers. They might have been able to laugh about it, but to top it all off, Robards had been in an even worse mood than the rest of them.

So, hungover and miserable, they had been put through a morning of rigorous training and testing, then given their new assignments. Except, none of them were new. The Ministry had decided that, given the gradual decline in Auror worthy incidents, it was time to revisit all cold cases. Cases he knew had been marked unsolved for a reason, because despite all their efforts, there had never been enough evidence to close them.

It had felt like a slap to the face, or some passive comment on their incompetence. He had been forced to leave some cases unfinished and each one was unforgettable. Disappearances or murders that demanded answers, answers he was supposed to have, but nonetheless answers he couldn’t find. It was an unfortunate outcome, but sometimes it was unavoidable. To demand answers to cases they’d obviously dedicated all the resources and manpower they could to almost felt like a juvenile punishment.

Still, they’d all begrudgingly taken their stack of files and groaned their way back to their desks. He had gotten of lightly, or so he’d thought. Ron had been given four cases, all pre-dating his birth. Neville had gotten one of the more gruesome triple homicides he’d seen, and one he knew had no evidence box waiting to offer clues. Seamus had been given a long string of robberies, which might not have been so bad, had any of them occurred within the last century.

He’d gotten one file. One manila folder with three pieces of paper. One reference number for a series of memories in their vault. One sparse description of the missing person, name, date of birth, description, and circumstances of their disappearance. And one recent photograph.

All belonging to one Draco Lucius Malfoy.

He remembered the disappearance, of course. It wasn’t exactly something that fell under the media’s radar. Draco had arguably been the most high-profile Death Eater after the trials were over. Well, he had been one of the only Death Eaters not sent to Azkaban. That alone had been on the front page of every paper for weeks afterwards. Most believed he should have been locked up with the rest of them, that he should pay for what he’d done, regardless of the circumstances. Of course, it had never gotten out that the Chosen One had been the one to testify in his defence.

Sure, he’d been an insufferable prat while they were at Hogwarts, but they’d just been kids. The same way he’d never wanted to be The Boy Who Lived, he was almost positive Draco had never wanted to join an organization of lunatics attempting to take over the world. He was born into a role he had to fill, regardless of whether or not he truly wanted to. And despite it all, he’d never believed Draco was all evil. Unbearably irritating and endlessly annoying, yes, but not deserving of a life sentence.

Then, less than year after the war had ended, Draco Malfoy vanished. He had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. He’d said no goodbyes, left no letters, made no travel arrangements. And even though there were plenty who would rather see him dead, there had never been any evidence of foul play. There had been…nothing.

He’d still been in training when it happened, so he hadn’t participated in the initial investigation, but given the measly piece of paper in front of him, it didn’t seem like they’d found much at all.

_Name: Draco Lucius Malfoy_

_Date of Birth: 5 June 1980 (18 yrs. at disappearance)_

_Description: Blonde Hair (medium length)_

_Grey Eyes_

_Approx. 1.85 m_

_Lanky build, approx. 60 kg_

_Last Seen: 16 February 1999_

_9:20, Narcissa Malfoy, Malfoy Manor_

_9:30-17:30, various co-workers, Slug and Jiggers Apothecary_

_19:55, Pansy Parkinson, Leaky Cauldron_

_Suspects: None_

_Theories: No evidence planned travel/relocation_

_No evidence of abduction/coercion_

_No evidence of assault/attack_

_No evidence of homicide_

_No evidence of self-inflicted harm/suicide_

The report had been limited, to say the least, and yet, the last theory set a rather ominous tone for the entire thing. It was standard protocol to follow all potential leads, and if there was a possibility that Draco’s disappearance had been something altogether…intentional and irreversible…well, he’d decided locating the memories was a good place to start.

The pensieve vaults were an eerie place. Bottled memories were silent, but somehow the entire place seemed to echo with lost and mournful voices. There were a number of horror stories the that floated around the office centred around the lingering spirits of victims still awaiting vengeance. They were just stories, but he couldn’t help but feel there was some truth to them. Thousands of glimpses into the lives of people wronged, wounded, or killed had to leave some sort of magical energy anyway.

Each standard issue vial holder had space for twelve memories. Any one case could contain a handful or trays or boxes full of them. Draco Malfoy’s, much like his file, was almost empty.

_16/2/1999, 9:20, Narcissa Malfoy, Malfoy Manor_

_16/2/1999, 13:55, Eric Dresden, Slug and Jiggers Apothecary_

_16/2/1999, 17:00, Gwen Lenox, Slug and Jiggers Apothecary_

_16/2/1999, 19:30, Pansy Parkinson, Leaky Cauldron_

_16/2/1999, 19:50, Russell O’Moore, Leaky Cauldron_

His mother, his friend, two co-workers, and a bartender. All from the same day, within a twelve-hour time frame. Not exactly promising. Still, he poured the first one into the pensieve.

_A moment of panic washed over him as he found himself in the great hall of the Malfoy Manor. The last time he’d seen it was right before he was thrown into their dungeons and Dobby had been killed saving him. Even in this memory, months after the war had ended, the home was still plagued by the lasting impression of Voldemort. There was more light perhaps, and there had been some attempt at redecorating, but the remnants of the evil madman still resounded in the Manor’s hallways._

_“Draco, where are you off to so early? I almost never see you these days,” Narcissa said cheerfully, walking right through him on her way to Draco, who was putting on a heavy, wool coat._

_He stepped closer to examine Draco and was momentarily stunned by how much the he had changed. At school, he’d always been arrogant and bold, even in sixth year he was able to maintain a somewhat believable façade. In this memory, he just looked…broken._

_His skin was even paler somehow, stretched tightly across his face. His features looked sharper, more exaggerated, like he’d lost a significant amount of weight. There were dark circles under his eyes, which looked empty and far away. The only recognizable feature was the always immaculate hair, longer maybe, but still slicked back without a strand out of place._

_“I have to go to work, mother,” Draco sighed with a noticeable resignation. “The Manor doesn’t pay for itself.”_

_“You know I said I would be more than happy to sell it,” Narcissa murmured at his reminder. “There are so many bad memories here anyway.”_

_“And who do you think is going to buy it? Not much of a market for Death Eater homes, least of all the one The Dark Lord himself lived in,” Draco spat, by the looks of it a bit more venomously than he’d intended._

_Narcissa didn’t outwardly appear phased by it. “Draco, are you all right? You know how I worry about you.”_

_“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Draco said, and put on what he knew was a fake smile. He gave his mother a kiss on her cheek and continued gathering his things._

_“Are you happy?” Narcissa asked suddenly, looking surprised that she’d said it at all._

_Draco halted momentarily. “Am I happy?” He paused for another beat. “What does happy feel like? I don’t think I can remember.”_

_Narcissa moved to say something else, but Draco had already finished grabbing his things and disapparated with one last forlorn smile._

Well, that explained the “suicide” theory. There was no conclusive evidence, but it was there…something was wrong. Well, _something_ had been wrong with all of them once the dust settled. They’d all lost people they loved, they’d all seen horrific things, and they’d all been left to reconstruct a broken and crumbled society.

He’d seen that empty gaze on too many faces. Hell, he’d seen it in his own reflection. Recovery hadn’t been quick, and it certainly hadn’t been easy. Friends helped and having something useful to do every day. The spotlight on his every action had nearly been his breaking point. He hadn’t been fine, but he’d needed to pretend he had been or have his depressed, traumatized face plastered on the front page for all to see.

Maybe Draco had faced the same. He was in the papers often enough, but he’d seemed more or less together. Then again, he’d never been portrayed in the most positive light, and would a worse for wear face not have fit the image the press built? He made a note to review what the tabloids had said exactly.

The next was Eric Dresden. Draco’s co-worker, he assumed.

_Slug and Jiggers Apothecary hadn’t changed since the day he’d bought his very first cauldron. The walls were still lined with unrecognizable vials and bottled, each covered in varying layers of dust. Customers still milled slowly among the counters of potion supplies and instruments. Cauldrons upon caldrons were still labelled by their own price markers. Even the prices, he thought, hadn’t changed._

_There was only one visible employee standing behind the counter, very much engaged in some conversation. He walked closed until an unmistakable head of blonde hair came into view, sitting on the ground and leaning heavily against the wall._

_“Draco, please, you need to see a healer. Those potions you’ve been brewing clearly aren’t doing the trick,” Eric, he assumed, was saying desperately._

_“Just a moment,” Draco whispered. He looked terrible, much worse than he had at the Manor. His pale skin had an odd, greenish tint, and was covered in small, iridescent beads of sweat._

_“What is it? Why won’t you just go to the hospital?” Eric pleaded._

_“I have,” Draco sighed, exhausted and resigned. “It isn’t something they can fix.”_

_“Is it from—” Eric started, they gulped. He seemed afraid of continued, and he couldn’t say he didn’t blame him. “Prolonged use of the Cruciatus can cause permanent damage, in varying degrees. That’s it, isn’t it?”_

_Draco was already sick. Seriously, maybe. Irreversibly and clearly affecting his day to day life._

_Draco hesitated before answering. “Among other things.”_

_“You could shorten your hours,” Eric offered. He sounded genuinely concerned sympathetic. He wasn’t treating Draco like the awful Death Eater he was painted as. He treated him as a friend, someone he cared about._

_“Please,” Draco said suddenly and desperately, “please don’t mention this. I can’t afford to work any less than I do.”  
“You’re going to kill yourself the way you’re going,” Eric scolded, sounding frustrated for the first time._

_Draco looked grimly at the floor, as if he knew something Eric didn’t. Then the look was gone, and he had that same false smile plastered on his face. “Don’t worry about it. I’m figuring things out.”_

_Eric didn’t seem convinced in the least, but another customer had come in and he moved quickly to attend to them. Draco grunted and started to stand. Then the memory dissolved._

He needed to find Eric Dresden. He certainly needed to locate Draco’s medical files, if there actually were any. Whatever illness he was suffering from, maybe it was linked to his disappearance.

There were at least two theories, and both of them were equally unsatisfying. They didn’t seem to fit, but they were too important to ignore.

He kept going, hoping for more. Something more informative.

_“I’m leaving,” Draco said hurriedly, only a few feet away from where he had landed. He grabbed his coat and bag, obviously in a rush to get somewhere._

_“Is something wrong? Your shift isn’t over,” Gwen said anxiously. She wasn’t upset that he was leaving early though. Like Eric, she seemed more worried than anything else._

_“Family emergency,” Draco answered simply, but there was something off about it. He realized what it was after a moment. It was the same scrambled, nervous look Draco had at school whenever he’d gotten caught. Like his confident façade had melted for a split second._

_“Is there anything I can do?” Gwen asked. She seemed to be a timid but kind sort of girl. Their age probably. “Is it—”  
“I’ll put in the extra half hour tomorrow,” Draco interrupted, and was already moving for the door._

_“Don’t worry about it!” Gwen shouted after him, but he didn’t hear her. She looked after him longingly, wanting to say more, know more._

He wanted to know more too. The file was wrong, on several counts maybe, but certainly on the timeline. Draco had left early, in a rush to get somewhere, see someone. Family emergency, he’d said. There was nothing more from Narcissa, but he’d double check. He would need to re-interview them all, if he could. And Lucius Malfoy, as was widely reported and very talked about in the Auror training program, had been found dead in his cell days after his trial. Suicide, by all accounts.

Draco’s only living relative was his mother, and as far as he knew, she wasn’t the emergency he needed to run off to. Which begged the question, what exactly required his immediate attention?

_“Merlin, you look awful,” Pansy Parkinson said with a clear note of disgust as Draco took a seat opposite her. He did look terrible. He’d grown more fatigued and more ill-looking as the day had dragged on, and the sallow faced man from the Manor suddenly didn’t seem quite so bad._

_“Why thank you,” Draco remarked sarcastically. “You look wonderful as ever.”_

_Pansy did look better than she had during their Hogwarts days. She’d grown into her unique looks, and had taken on a professional, put together ensemble. She looked better than most of them had so soon after the war anyway._

_“You’re late,” she noted, also scoldingly._

_“Got carried away brewing a few orders,” Draco said apologetically. He was lying again._

_“Yesterday you sent me three owls begging me to have dinner with you, and after all that, you’re late,” she mused, “you’re never late, and you rarely go out of your way just to see me. What’s going on?”_

_Draco’s eyes flicked anxiously around the room. “What? Am I not allowed to spend time with my best friend?” Pansy eyes him dubiously, almost like he’d insulted her somehow. “Alright, alright. I need you to promise me something, and please just…don’t ask any questions.”_

_Pansy furrowed her brow, confusion bordering on concern flickering momentarily, then it was gone. She was all business, a comrade awaiting orders._

_“There’s a vault in my name,” Draco whispered so quietly it was barely audible, sliding a Gringotts key discretely across the table, “I’ve put away everything I could. It should be enough for my mother. She’s always wanted to retire to Côtes d'Armor.”_

_“Why are you telling me this?” Pansy asked nervously._

_“Because if something happens to me—”  
“If something happens to you?” Pansy repeated, suddenly looking very afraid and not at all annoyed._

_“Just—just in case, can you promise to look after her for me?”_

_Whatever might happen, Draco seemed almost positive that something would. He knew something was going to happen to him, and soon. Pansy wanted to ask more clearly, but there was some element of solidarity between them. Like she already knew, or at least had an idea about what was about to happen._

_“I promise,” she agreed seriously, “but Draco—”_

_“I’ve got to run Pans,” Draco interrupted, standing up suddenly. “Let’s meet up again soon.”  
Draco left so quickly that he left his jacket behind, heading for the door and the brutal February cold. Somehow, the reverberating slam felt far more final than anything else._

_He realized in that moment that it had been the last time anyone had seen Draco Malfoy alive._

He watched the last memory, the bartender’s. There hadn’t been too much, just another view of Draco leaving the pub. Two nondescript men left a few minutes after him. It could have been completely unrelated though, and there wasn’t a clear enough view of their winter clothing obscured faces to do much with.

He stood silently in the memory haunted halls, more affected than he would have imagined. Five short memories about someone he’d hated his entire adolescence. Why had they bothered him so much?  
Either the initial investigation had been sloppy and rushed, or the subtle hints he’d found truly hadn’t warranted any sort of notation. There had been nothing definitive, nothing he could confirm even with more digging. But they had been there, the possibilities of what had happened.

_“Am I happy? What does happy feel like? I don’t think I can remember,”_ Draco had said to his mother. He looked the part of a disturbed, traumatized war victim. He looked empty, alone, and half way into his grave anyway. Suicide…it was unthinkable, but maybe not impossible.

_“I have. It isn’t something they can fix,_ ” Draco had said about his illness. He had been sick, seriously sick, before he’d vanished. Had it been serious enough that it might be linked to his disappearance? Cruciatus damage, if that was what it was, had to potential to cause so many life-long, life-threatening conditions. Madness, frailty, heart defects, to name a few.

_“Family emergency,”_ he’d said to Gwen, and then _“Got carried away brewing a few orders,”_ to Pansy. Excuses he knew held no truth. He’d vanished for almost three hours, and then disappeared soon after.

_“If something happens to me.”_

He’d known. He’d already known what was about to happen. He’d told Pansy just half an hour before he’d vanished that it was going to happen. He hadn’t tried to avoid it though. He hadn’t asked for help or phoned the Auror department. He hadn’t gone into hiding, at least ostensibly. He had met whatever was coming, making sure everything was in order first.

Draco had known, and yet he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what had happened.

He’d checked his watch then. A quarter to ten. He hadn’t realized he’d been sorting through the memories for so long. He pocketed all five vials, knowing he was breaking the rules. It was hard to believe anyone would miss them though, and he had wanted to look over them again, somewhere where he could concentrate fully.

It was when he’d turned to leave that he heard the voice for the first time.

_“Help,”_ it said, disembodied and yet clear as if someone had been standing right in front of him. He’d scanned the aisles, searching for the source, but at that hour, there was no one. Just him, and maybe the momentary presence of something else. _Someone_ else.

“You never said what you got,” Ron roared over the crowd, pouring a generous cup from their second pitcher. “Worried we’ll all be jealous of you? You hear what Seamus got?”

He nodded. Poor Seamus had been interviewing the few ancient and mostly senile witnesses to his case. He was sure the department would let him off eventually, there really wasn’t much left to solve. All the victims were either dead or, not to sound crude, nearly there. The perp likely among the former.

He knew someone would ask him about it his case eventually. It wasn’t that he was trying to hide it, it was just that, well, somehow it was different than all of theirs. It wasn’t some long-forgotten robbery or horrible, but nonetheless unattached, assault. He knew the victim. They had all known the victim. And for the most part, they’d all hated him. So, he knew what the response would be before he even told them.

“Draco Malfoy,” he answered simply.

Ron chocked on his drink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I got Draco Malfoy’s disappearance.”

The table suddenly fell silent, and all eyes were upon him.

“They never did solve that one, did they?” Neville spoke up, and he was grateful for the noticeable lack of distaste.

“They gave _you_ Malfoy’s case?” Ron laughed dryly. He had a point. “I reckon they’re just teaching you a lesson. They’ll let it go soon enough.”

But that was the thing, he didn’t want to let it go. He wanted to solve it, maybe more than he’d wanted to solve any case before. It was frustratingly mysterious, almost devoid of any clues, and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, something, was compelling him to dig deeper. He’d been hearing that voice ever since he’d first looked at the memories. Quiet, quickly disappearing, and nonetheless desperate.

“I’m trying to find witnesses,” he said instead.

“Weren’t there statements in the file? Re-examining them five years later won’t do you much good.”

“That’s the thing. There aren’t any statements. The file is empty.”

That got their attention. Death Eater or not, there should have been something.

“Who was on the case?” Ron asked, suddenly interested, maybe even a bit bothered by the lack of effort.

“Cassidy. He retired before we finished training.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead. Old age, perfectly natural.” Just another dead end. Literally. One more source he’d pursued only to be met with nothing. Every time he thought he’d found something it just fell through his fingers, like fleeting, ungraspable dust.

“Family? Friends?” Neville offered, although he hadn’t seemed convinced the latter existed.

“His mother is in France. Robards assigned me a portkey, but she hasn’t answered any of the appointment requests I’ve sent. I’m afraid she’ll have vanished too.”

“That’s it?” Ron sounded surprised, which was either a testament to his forgiveness or his naivety. “His friends from school?”

“I’m not sure,” he murmured.

“You mean you can’t find them either?”

“Or they don’t want me to,” he corrected grudgingly. He’d only sent a few, half-hearted owls, but there had been no replies. Maybe they weren’t missing at all, and they simply didn’t want to see him as much as he didn’t want to see them. He would have to, he knew, if he was going to get anywhere with the investigation.

“Or you haven’t looked,” Neville piped up, and he quickly downed what was left of his drink and offered to buy the next round.

“Well, what do you think happened?” Ron said seriously once he’d returned, generously presenting a bottle of Odgen’s finest.

“I have no idea,” he sighed. Normally, he had at least some inkling of what happened. A premonition, maybe, or some working theory he could build off of. This time, he had nothing. Or he had too much, and no evidence for any of it. He wasn’t sure re-inteviewing the witnesses would even help when there was nothing else to find. If there ever had been, it was long gone.

“Maybe he just moved away,” Neville offered optimistically.

“Maybe,” he agreed, but shook his head. “There was something off though, the way he looked, the way he was behaving that day. He was hiding something, but not…I think he knew something was going to happen. I don’t think it was his choice though, whatever it was. He knew, but he didn’t, I don’t know, tell anyone? Try to get help?”

“Are you sure it wasn’t his choice?” Ron said cryptically. And there it was again. The unshakable feeling that something was wrong with Draco, more than just his physical wellbeing. Like he had been broken just like the rest of them, and maybe that had been his undoing.

Thus far, he had firmly refused to believe that Draco had reached that point. It didn’t make sense. He was an Auror, and he had to give credit to every plausible theory. Yet even entertaining the idea that Draco had…killed himself, it was impossible.

_“Help me,”_ the voice whispered.

Brittany, he’d discovered, was just as cold as London. The idyllic pictures he’d seen had tricked him into believing it would be warmer. Which had left him vastly unprepared in just his Auror robes, shivering on the doorstep of a nondescript stone cottage. It was near the water, with an undisturbed view, which was a credit to whatever Draco had left his mother. This time of year, it was so silent and empty if felt as though he could have been the only in the world. Then the door had cracked open and a warm looking, middle-aged woman had poked her head out.

“I’m sorry, I was under the impression that Narcissa Malfoy lived here,” he explained hurriedly at her confused gaze, but as soon as he spoke, her face relaxed at she beamed at him widely.

“Yes, of course. I’m Anais, the housekeeper. You’ll be Harry Potter then?” she asked, already opening the door for him. So Narcissa had gotten his letters. “She’s been expecting you. She’ll be in the parlour just now. Let me know if I can get you anything.”

Giving her a quick nod, he continued in the direction she’d gestured, passing through one large, open archway and into a brightly lit, comfortably furnished room.

For everything that she had been through, Narcissa looked remarkably well. The strain and ruin of the war had left their mark, but the fear and misery he’d seen so plainly on her face had given way to something bordering on…contentment. She smiled down at the book she cradled in her lap, seemingly in her own world.

“Mrs. Malfoy?” he said softly, not wanting to disturb her.

“Black,” she corrected, closing her book slowly. “It’s Ms. Black, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry,” he offered, and she smiled softly. “Just call me Harry, please."

“I appreciate your stopping by, Harry,” she started, and gestured for him to take a seat. “I thought the investigation had ended years ago.”

“It had, but we’ve been reviewing all—” he stopped before he said “cold” or “unsolved,” “unfinished cases,” he finished carefully.

“Well, I appreciate that you’ve taken the time to re-examine the case. I’m not sure I’ll be able to offer much assistance, but I’ll do whatever I can, of course.”

“You don’t have any idea what happened?” he asked bluntly. No use tiptoeing around the subject.

“No,” she sighed, letting out a large breath. “I tried for so long to piece it together. You’re an Auror now, you understand. Search for clues, go back over everything he’d said. There was nothing. He was just…gone.”

She sounded remarkably at peace with it. There was still an intense sadness about her, but after five years, it sounded as though she’d given up, lost hope.

“Was there anyone who would have wanted to hurt him?” he said, starting the brief list of questions he’d brought with him.

“Sometimes I think the whole world did, I mean, you saw the papers. You must have known what everyone thought of him. But you testified on our behalf, didn’t you? You knew he only did it to survive, to protect us, to—look at me, I’m rambling a bit, aren’t I? No, I can’t think of anyone _specific_ who would have wanted to hurt him.”

He wished there were something he could do, some way to show her that he’d never believed Draco to be as bad as the press painted him to be. To tell her that what he said in front of the Wizengamot was true.

“Is there any chance he just decided to move away? Start a new life somewhere?”

“Most people would, if they were in his position. Go somewhere no one recognized his face, escape the unending stream of abuse he faced every time he left the house,” she smiled, as if she hoped that was what really happened, “but Draco wouldn’t have. He was so wrapped up in his ‘responsibilities,’ he’d called them, to ever just disappear. He desperately wanted to save the Manor, to take care of me, to find some way of contributing to the rebuilding effort.

“You know he left me the money for this house? No, of course you do. You would have figured that out by now. None of the money came from less than savoury methods, either, if you were worried about that. We looked, he worked almost constantly for the overtime pay. He was going to kill himself, working as hard as he did—"

“What was wrong with him?” he asked before she could continue, then realized how rude it sounded, “I mean that…well, he was sick, wasn’t he? What was it?”

Narcissa’s entire expression changed at that. It wasn’t accepting or understanding, it wasn’t even mournful or grieving. She looked furious, like an instinctively, fiercely protective mother.

“Draco didn’t have it easy, during the war,” she started, as if she wasn’t sure when to begin. “Even before, I suppose. I tried to…but Lucius was…” she stopped and cleared her throat. “Cruiciatus, is the answer you’re looking for I think, among other things. The damage was extensive. He was still sane, thank the gods. There was the damage to his immune system, that’s why he was so sick all the time. Before, at Hogwarts, he must have been in the infirmary every other week. His digestive organs, that’s why he was always so thin. He couldn’t gain weight, he could hardly keep anything down.

“Just before he disappeared things started getting even worse. There was something about nerve damage, loss of feeling and dexterity. Simply walking around the house he would get out of breath. If he was ever home, that is, working as much as he did. Sometimes he wouldn’t even make it into his own bed, I would find him sprawled across a sofa.”

She stopped again, this time staring distantly out the window. He didn’t miss the slight tremor that had started in her hands, and he could have sworn he saw the beginning of oncoming tears. “You’re wondering why I’m so at peace, aren’t you? Why this conversation hasn’t upset me a great deal? He went to the Healers that January. They gave him six months, no more than a year. He’s been gone five years. Whatever happened, he’s at peace now.”

He hadn’t even responded, he’d just bolted in the direction he assumed was towards a bathroom. He didn’t know how he’d ended up there, why he’d ended up there, heaving up the contents of his stomach, burning tears appearing in the corners of his eyes.

Draco had been sick. No, he had been dying. It made sense, the conversation he’d had with Pansy. He’d wanted to know that his mother would be taken care of. Six months, it was a grim sentence. Eighteen years old, knowing he wouldn’t make it to twenty.

Then there was the knowledge of _why_ …why he was dying. That all those times he’d hated Draco and believed he supported his family’s alliance, all those times he’d called him a Death Eater and tried beyond reason to find evidence…all that time Draco had been living in a nightmare.

He knew how much torture it would have taken to inflict that much damage. Even spread out over time, it must have happened every time that Draco was home. Every day, maybe. He had suffered so much, completely alone, completely in silence. It was worse than believing Draco had become a Death Eater to keep himself alive or to protect his family. Maybe he’d done it in the futile hope that it would end.

He’d only ever told Ron and Hermione what growing up with the Dursleys was truly like. Beatings each time he burnt their breakfast, being locked up in that cupboard, starved for the slightest offense, punished each time he talked back. He knew what it must have been like, at least a little. He knew what it was like to live in the same house as his greatest fear, to know that there was no escape, no end. All that time, Draco was facing the same.

And now what? What was the point of any of this if Draco was already gone? Not gone the way he was believed to be, what if he was truly gone. What if his investigation was pointless, and the only remnants of Draco Malfoy was an old skeleton, lost to whatever fate he had been given that night? What if there was no great mystery at all and six months had come too soon?

He tried to collect himself the best he could before returning to the sitting room, piecing together what was left of his dignity. He knew how miserable he must have looked without even looking in the mirror. Luckily, he hadn’t needed to explain himself to Narcissa. She’d already formed her finishing remarks.

“I’m sure the Auror department’s resources are stretched thin, and the last thing you need to be doing is chasing down a dead end, but please, if I could ask a favour,” she smiled widely at him, although her eyes were full of tears, “I would like to have a body to bury. I would like some closure. If you could…could you please find him?”

There were never any guarantees that he would solve any one case. Promises were futile and could always end by making matters even worse. They were taught not to offer families definitive endings.

But in that moment, he didn’t care. He looked at Narcissa with every ounce of determination he could manage. “I will find him,” he heard himself say.

As he stepped back into the bitter air and reached for the portkey stored safely in his pocket, the voice returned, as if carried by the whipping winds.

“ _Help_ ,” was all it said.

_“Are you alright?”_ The first owl, from Hermione, said.

_“I can’t keep telling them you’re sick.”_ Came the second, from Ron.

_“We need you back in the office.”_ The third sterner, less sympathetic came from Robards.

They’d waited an entire week before breaking down his wards. Ron and Hermione, ridden with anxiety and a not entirely far-fetched worry that he might have died. No one had seen or heard from him in days.

The state they found him in was worrying enough. Exhausted, stuck somewhere between dangerously caffeinated and thoroughly drunk. Surrounded by statements, theories scribbled down, most of them crossed out.

He was so exhausted he’d broken down. He’d told them everything. The frustration he’d felt at the lack of evidence. The never-ending cycle of planning where he could start, what to do, who to interview. The daily retracing of Draco’s steps.

The consuming, unending need to find out what had happened.

He told them about the strange, cryptic, final conversation Draco had had with his mother. He told them that he had been working constantly, that his co-workers were worried. He told them that he’d left work early that day. He told them Draco had asked Pansy to look after his mother.

He told them about the torture Draco had suffered, of the abuse he had never been able to escape.

He told them that Draco had been sick. That Draco had been dying, that he would have died within six months. That whatever had happened, he was gone.

He told them everything…except the voice. He knew what they would have said, given the state he was already in. They would have taken him to a healer, or politely implied that he had gone a bit mad. But he knew they were wrong, and maybe that made them right. No, the voice wasn’t in his head. He’d known it then even. That someone was asking him for help, begging him. Only, he had no idea who it was or where they were, or why they were asking.

Ron and Hermione had offered to help, of course. And later when the rest of them had made their way over, bearing gifts of homecooked food and quickly confiscated bottles of alcohol. They would have been more than happy to contribute to the “find Draco Malfoy” cause. He probably should have accepted, but a part of him wanted to do it alone. To prove, too late, that he cared, that he was sorry.

He’d gone to work the next day. He’d pulled himself together to the point that he was believably sane. But every night when he went back to his empty house, the questions had started again. The reviewing notes, reworking theories.

And always that voice, the last thing he heard before falling asleep.

_“Help me.”_

Pansy Parkinson hadn’t disappeared. She hadn’t even moved away. She still lived in London, only a few blocks away from Diagon Alley.

She claimed to have been too busy to reply to his owls, which was entirely believable. She had been consumed with the small fashion business he’d started, which had gained remarkable notice since her spring collection three years before, she’d told him.

She’d gotten married a year after Draco’s disappearance, to some kind, respectable, German pureblood. A shotgun marriage, she’s admitted, their twins arriving seven months after the wedding. Another a year later. A fourth due any day. Their apartment was bursting at the seams. They were trying to find a house somewhere in the country, she’d said.

She’d delayed the inevitable conversation as much as she could. Only after eating an awkward, silent dinner and getting all of her children to sleep did she face the purpose of his visit.

“They’ve reopened his case then?” she asked, struggling momentarily to sit in the chair opposite him. He only nodded. “They didn’t look very hard last time, are you any different? Or are you just doing this to please the office until they let you off the hook?”

“I’m going to find him,” he said gravely.

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes uncomfortably piercing. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I believe you. What do you want to know?”

“What do you think happened?” he asked bluntly, wasting no time.

She laughed quietly, finding him incredibly amusing. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Do you want a simple answer? He could have moved away, found somewhere warm and sunny to start over. He could have died, he was sick, you know. He could have given up on his miserable existence.”

“You don’t believe any of that though,” he stated more than asked.

“No,” she sighed, “I don’t think that’s what happened. He wasn’t like that. He was too loyal, too dedicated…ridiculously righteous. It used to irritate me so much. Always taking it upon himself to take care of others or fix all of our problems. Meanwhile, he would never worry about his own wellbeing or even try to take care of himself.”

She paused for a moment. “You want to know what I do think happened though. Alright, but you know I have absolutely no evidence, just a gut feeling.”

He leaned forward in his seat, more than desperate to hear anything she had to say.

“It was subtle. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I didn’t know him so well. He was anxious, more than usual. He kept shifting in his seat, scanning the room, like he was expecting something, someone. I don’t know. When he handed me the key to his vault, it wasn’t a ‘just in case’ or ‘eventually.’ He knew it was the last time he would see me. I think I knew it as well.

“He wouldn’t have run off so quickly if he was just going to board a plane or throw himself off some bridge, would he? He would have stayed to chat then, to throw off whatever suspicions I had. He was like that. Maybe it was his way of warning me, telling me something… _something_ was waiting for him, and he knew as much. And do you know what’s funny? In all the years I knew him, he never once asked to meet up again. He hated making plans. I think…I think that was his goodbye.”

“His goodbye,” he thought. Draco hadn’t said goodbye to anyone, not outright. But if Pansy believed he had…it wasn’t much. It still wasn’t an explanation, but it did mean something. It meant that he _did_ know something was going to happen, whatever it was.

“You think it was someone else,” he said. She didn’t say anything, but the grim expression on her face said it all. “Who?”

“Some vigilante hoping to exact revenge on a notorious Death Eater?” she mused, with no certainty whatsoever. “A Death Eater enraged by his public transition to the ‘light’? Someone who’d lost someone during the war and was looking for someone to blame?”

“A Death Eater,” he repeated, something he’d never even considered. “Are there any left?”

Suddenly, her face went completely blank. Her walls of defence were back up. “I have to go check on my children, make sure they’ve actually gone to sleep. You know how rowdy they can get, ignoring bed times and all that.”

She was scared. She was worried that she’d already said too much, that if someone found out they’d be in danger.

“Please,” he said desperately, grabbing her arm as she stood to leave.

She shut her eyes, debating whether or not to tell him anything. “Theodore Nott’s still locked up, isn’t he? He refused to say anything at his trial. He didn’t get any leniency. We all thought he was ridiculous. I mean, he was hardly an active member. He’s been in a cell how long now? Six years? I wonder if he’s had some time to reconsider.”

It wasn’t an answer, but it was more than anything he’d had then. An almost plausible theory, and a new face to interview. Maybe another dead end, or maybe the beginning of the end.

He wrote to Robards as soon as he got home, requesting permission to visit and question a prisoner.

_“Help.”_

Even with the reforms Shacklebolt had put in place, Azkaban was still a haunted place. Even without the presence of dementors, the inmates looked half crazed. Although, there was really no knowing if they had arrived that way or not. He knew the vast majority of the cells were full of Death Eaters, and most of them had certainly been mad long before they’d been caught.

Theodore Nott was a fair sight better off that most of them. He looked miserable and ill, but there was still some degree of presence in his eyes. At least, he was sane enough to curse the guards as they dragged him into the interrogation room.

“What do you want?” Theo demanded, eying him suspiciously once he’d made himself comfortable in his metal chair.

“Information,” he said simply.

Theo laughed cruelly. “Why would I tell you anything?”

“I heard the rec room needs a new pin pong table,” he mused, which Theo only snarled at. “Or maybe you’d like to get out of here one day?”

Theo looked at him pensively, weighing whether he was telling the truth or whether it was just some sort of ruse. “Why should I believe you?” Theo said finally.

“I have the papers right here,” he answered, pulling them out of his robes. It had taken a lengthy, heated argument, followed by several hours of negotiation with Shacklebolt himself. “You give me the answers I’m looking for and your life sentence gets reduced to twenty years.” Theo scoffed loudly. “You’ve already served six, which only leaves fourteen more. And I’m even throwing in permission to emigrate, if you decide to.”

He’d caught Theo’s attention, which was more than enough. “What do you want to know?” Theo muttered angrily, but he hadn’t outright refused.

“The names of Death Eaters we never caught.”

“That’s all? Haven’t enough of us spilled the beans?”

“I have it on good authority that you know more,” he whispered.

Something dangerous flickered in Theo’s eyes. “‘Good authority,’” he repeated. “This isn’t just a witch-hunt. What’s this really about?”

He could lie, tell him they were just following up with some accusations. He could pretend there’d been new crimes. Or he could tell the truth and hope that Theo still had an ounce of compassion for someone he once called a friend.

“Draco Malfoy.”

“What about him?” Theo spat.

“He vanished five years ago,” he said cautiously.

Theo almost looked saddened for a moment, and he knew there was still hope.

“You think one of us is involved.”

“It’s a theory,” he offered, even while praying that it wasn’t just that.

“Even if I give you the names, it doesn’t guarantee it was one of them.”

But it would be something, he thought. “It can’t hurt.”

“And my leniency?”

“It’ll still stand regardless.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, then sighed loudly. “Sign the papers.”

“Give me the names first.”

Theo glared for a moment, but then a look of resignation fell over him. “Give me a piece of paper.”

He’d left Azkaban, a few sheets of parchment clutched tightly it his hand. It wasn’t much, a few dozen names. It might get a good number of them off the streets, which was something at least. Or it might be the answers he was looking for.

_“Help me.”_

Two months of non-stop, overtime, after hours, and working from home work. Two months and they’d found almost every Death Eater Theo had given them.

Dead. Captured. Imprisoned. Extradited. Alibied.

None of them could have had anything to do with Draco’s disappearance. Which didn’t so much bother his superiors. They all clapped him on the back and congratulated him on catching so many undesirables. The Prophet put his face on their front page with countless articles noting his bravery and dedication. “The Chosen One Does It Again.” Robards offered him a raise and a promotion. His co-workers bought rounds and rounds of fire whiskey to celebrate.

So why didn’t he feel the slightest bit happy? Why did he feel so empty and numb each time they chased a lead and found no connection?

And there was the voice. It might happen a dozen times a day, it might not happen at all for several. But it was still there. Still pleading, still desperate, still unfindable. That’s when he’d decided to figure it out, to piece together who was trying to reach him.

And it was so obvious, wasn’t it? It had started that first day when he’d gotten the file. It had gotten louder every time he reached a dead end.

_“Help me.”_

It was Draco Malfoy. He knew it was with absolute certainty. He wasn’t insanely caffeinated, he wasn’t exhausted or overworked, and he wasn’t crazy. And Draco Malfoy wasn’t dead.

It was like something out of a fairy tale. The moment he started believing, something changed. Suddenly, the voice wasn’t just asking for help. The voice was talking to him.

_“Bloody took you long enough,”_ it said, so snarky and sarcastic it could only be one person.

“Why now? Why me?” he answered anxiously, to the confusion of the people nearby. He waited with bated breath for a response.

_“You looked,”_ it said after a moment, sounding almost as confused as he felt. _“You’re the only one who did.”_

“So, it’s really is you? I haven’t gone mad?”

_“Those are too separate question.” The voice sounded almost…amused. “I can’t vouch for your sanity, but I suppose the former is more or less true.”_

More or less. “I don’t suppose you could help me out a bit.”

_“There are limits to…how much I can tell you.”_

“Can you tell me where you are?” he whispered, but there was no reply. Only an eerie silence. Draco didn’t know, or he couldn’t tell him. Or the communication had already been too long.

He thought to ask Hermione about it. She might know about disembodied voices, or projected consciousness or whatever it was. She might have looked into it for him. But then again, she might have just checked him into the Janus Thickey ward.

He could have researched it again himself. Reread every book he’d checked out before, reviewed every possibility. But that would have brought him no closer to finding Draco or figuring out what had happened to him. And he couldn’t afford to slow down, to devote any of his time to anything else.

_Rabastan Lestrange_.

It was a name he recognized. He was the brother of Rodolphus, who’d married Draco’s aunt, Bellatrix. Bellatrix and her husband, he knew, had been killed during the Final Battle, but Rabastan, it seemed, had managed to slip through the cracks.

They hadn’t found any trace of him during their first sweep of Theo’s list. Even when they’d probed deeper, rounding up almost all of them, he’d never been found. Not a single clue to where he’d ended up.

He needed to find Blaise Zabini.

After the war, most of the Death Eaters had happily gone to Azkaban, determined to support their Lord until their deaths. Some had begged for leniency, turned in their allies, revealed rebellious plots. Some had killed themselves before they’d been found.

Then there were the few, like Blaise, who had agreed to put their “unique” skill set to the use of the Ministry. As it turned out, Blaise had been very involved in setting up and carefully warding Death Eater safe houses. Before his trial, he had agreed to help the Ministry locate and disable as many as he could, in exchange for freedom.

Three years later, the ministry had deemed his work done, and given enough to start a new life. Except, like Pansy, he’d never left. According to their files, Blaise still lived in London and was working for a Muggle newspaper, oddly enough. Unlike Pansy, Blaise had responded to the first owl he’d sent.

“Pansy mentioned you might write me,” Blaise said nonchalantly over the coffee they’d ordered. “I wasn’t sure, though. They didn’t question me when it happened.”

“Did you speak with him that day?” he asked, almost desperately.

“To Draco?” Blaise laughed lightly. “No, we hadn’t spoken in months.”

He almost asked why, but it was hardly relevant. “Is there any chance that you missed any safe houses?” he asked, only catching how accusatory it sounded after the fact.

The voice had warned him before hand, _“he’s very sensitive about his intellectual abilities, he fancied himself a genius or something,”_ and he’d already done just that.

“I didn’t set all of them up,” Blaise scoffed, “they didn’t trust a kid with all of their secrets. I’m sure there are still more out there.”

_“Don’t underestimate him,”_ the voice said, _“he knew more about setting up safehouses than the rest of us combined.”_

“What about the Lestrange safe houses?”

Then it happened, the same anxious sweep of the room Pansy had done. Even in her own home she’d been worried. Even in a Muggle coffee shop Blaise was worried. But unlike Pansy, whatever they were afraid of didn’t stop him from continuing.

“They never let me near theirs. Most of the inner ring didn’t.”

_“He’s lying.”_

“But you still know about them,” he pressed.

“What’s the connection to Draco? You think Rabastan was involved somehow?” He shrugged, and a Blaise shot him a knowing look. “This is your only lead, isn’t it? You’re just grasping at straws.”

“Can you help me?” he managed.

Blaise looked thoughtfully into his cup for a moment, then shook his head, not at all happy with the decision he was about to make. “My fiancée, I want 24/7 protection on her. And if I’m going to give you my help, we’re going to do things on my terms. I need access to records, access to memories, freedom to interview prisoners. If I do find anything— _if_ I find anything, you’re going to need me there, on the front lines. Understood?”

He nodded enthusiastically, not entirely sure his superiors would meet all of Blaise’s demands, but convinced he’d find a way somehow.

“And now that I’m thinking about it, I should probably be compensated for my time,” Blaise mused, “what are you Aurors being paid these days?”

“Did you hear that?” he thought as he paid for their drinks. “We’re coming to find you.”

_“He could have been a bit more eager to find me,” the voice muttered, “he always was a ruthless opportunist.”_

“Why are you so invested in this?” Blaise asked, pouring them both another cup of the cheap, flavourless instant coffee they kept in the office. Reluctantly, he glanced at the clock. Half past two in the morning.

“It’s my job,” he answered, hoping it sounded a lot more convincing out loud than it ever did in his own head.

“No, it’s not,” Blaise decided, not fooled for a second, “your job is to do what you can, within reason, to solve the cases you’re given. Isn’t there something about ‘knowing when to let go’ in your handbook?”

“I’m just exhausting all leads.”  
“That’s not all you’re exhausting,” Blaise muttered, with a pointed glance at the waste bin full of Styrofoam cups. “You’ve managed to catch more Death Eaters than anyone since the war ended. Why not call it a day?”

“I said you could leave hours ago, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he offered, turning back to the stack of files in front of him.

“You’re not answering my question,” Blaise pushed, “and I’m not going home. Draco was my friend, and that’s reason enough for me to stay up all night every night trying to find him. But you? You hated him. So, Harry, what’s your excuse? Why are you doing this?”

_“You looked. You’re the only one who did.”_ He remembered the empty, icy feeling that had consumed him when the voice had said that.

“Because someone should be looking.”

_“Oh shut up,”_ the voice chided.

“Still desperate to be the saviour then?” Blaise remarked sarcastically, although not too bitterly. “Merlin, Draco never stopped ranting about your Gryffindor God-complex while we were at school. We used to beg him to shut up, not that he ever did.”

_“I did not,”_ the voice hissed, and he couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

Recently, working with Blaise had turned into an odd three-way conversation, where only he could hear the third person. The anonymous comments were few and far between, almost like the connection couldn’t be maintained for long periods. He’d stopped asking for more information, knowing that there would never be an answer. He didn’t resent it as much as he once did, if only because it meant that somewhere, somehow, Draco was still alive.

“I find that very hard to believe,” he said instead.

_“Because it’s not true.”_

“Oh, believe me, it was always ‘precious potter things he so special’ or ‘walks around like he owns the place,’” Blaise stopped suddenly, and looked sadly off into the distance.

_“He’s lying.”_

“I hadn’t thought of him in ages, hadn’t remembered what our school days had been like,” Blaise cleared his throat loudly. “I suppose I have you to blame for that too. In addition to the strain all of this is putting on my relationship. I’d like to see you try to explain away your constant absence and the strange men who’ve suddenly moved in next door.”

“I suppose a relationship would complicate things,” he muttered, knowing Blaise hadn’t said it to point out his obvious lack of companion.

“Why are you still single?” Blaise asked bluntly. “I mean, you and Ginny didn’t work out for _obvious reasons_ , but you are the Chosen One and all—”

“I’m sorry, ‘obvious reason?’” he interrupted. Obviously, he knew what those “obvious reasons” were, but it wasn’t exactly common knowledge. He barely even disclosed it to his closest friends.

“I mean, you are—”

“Yes,” he answered before he could stop himself. He wasn’t ashamed, he just…didn’t feel like everyone needed to know. So much of his life was on public display already, was it wrong to just keep one piece to himself?

“I assume there have been—”

“Yes,” he answered again, although it was a bit of a stretch. There had been relationships…short lived, fleeting, non-meaningful relationships.

“And?”

“And what?” he barked, more harshly than he meant to. “Sorry, I just…don’t see why it’s important.”

Blaise laughed lightly, mercifully breaking the tension. “I just wondered is all but—I really didn’t expect you to be so tightly wound about it. You should really get out more. You know, there’s a nice, Muggle gay bar not far from where I live—”

“Blaise, if we ever solve this case, I promise you can try to rejuvenate my love life, okay?”

“Well, if that’s the case,” Blaise smirked, “you better start clearing your schedule. I think I might have found him.”

“So, you used to be obsessed with me?” he murmured, trying to fill the hours until the exact location was confirmed. “Still piecing together a few things,” Blaise had said dismissively, much to his frustration.

_“Completely incorrect.”_

“I suppose I was a bit obsessed with you too,” he started, horrified by what he’d openly admitted. “You know, trying to prove you were a Death Eater and all.”

_“You were right, in the end.”_

“Was I?”

It was a loaded question. He supposed in some ways he must have been. Draco had the brand to prove it. But in other ways…well, things were never completely black and white, were they? There had been motivations, no doubt, a few he’d come to understand in vivid detail. Had he ever contributed to the awful things the rest had? There had never been any solid accusations. The only one was his attempt to kill Dumbledore, and he hadn’t even succeeded in that.

_“I was a Death Eater the moment I was born.”_

“And I was the Chosen One,” he countered, “neither of us chose it.”

_“Wouldn’t you, if you had to do it over?”_

He hesitated. Would he face all the trials and tribulations again, given the choice? Would he sacrifice so many of the people he loved with the infantile idea that he might have done a better job than someone else might have? But would he had been satisfied stepping aside, not knowing if he might have made things just a little bit better?

“I don’t know. Would you?”

_“No.”_ And there it was, all the proof he needed that Draco Malfoy wasn’t the villain everyone believed he was. He hadn’t chosen it, and he wouldn’t choose it again. _“But don’t get any righteous ideas in that naïve head of yours. That doesn’t change who I am or what I’ve done.”_

“You saved me, at the Manor.”

_“You saved me in the Room of Requirements, what’s your point. If this is about some silly life debt—”_

“I’m just saying, maybe you aren’t as terrible as you pretend to be.”

_“It was hardly—”_

“And you gave information to the Order,” a secret that had been kept from them until Charlie had a bit too much spiked eggnog one Christmas.

_“Rarely—”_

“Whenever you could.”

_“Stop trying to save everyone.”_

“What can I say, I just have a specialty for it.”

_“If you ever find me, I swear—”_

“When,” he corrected. “When I find you.”

When Blaise had said he’d found “him,” he had hoped he meant Draco, not the filthy, recalcitrant, half crazed Rabastan. He also had hoped that recovering him wouldn’t have proved as difficult, time consuming, and dangerous as it had. Apparently, he’d been far too optimistic on both counts.

Now, he’d been forced to explain to Blaise’s fiancée that he was in hospital, but no she couldn’t visit him, and come up with some clever, believable reason why. The moron had only taken the brunt of a tripwire triggered curse. In the end, Neville had still gotten hit, although, he’d walked away with only a few broken ribs, rather than in a body bag.

Most of the team had boasted relatively minor injuries, though a few needed more serious medical attention. There had been no fatalities, which was a credit to Blaise’s curse-breaking expertise.

Except at the end of a day’s hard, life threating work, the only thing they’d found was the very alive, very angry Rabastan Lestrange. It had taken two of their strongest, a set of heavily charmed cuffs, and just about every containment spell they knew to subdue him. But once they’d gotten him into holding, there seemed to be no shutting him up. He was one constant stream of obscene, prejudiced, slurred nonsense.

Another dead end, he’d thought, after a pointless initial questioning.

_“Ask him about me,”_ the voice said, materialising for the first time in days.

“Tell me about February 16th, 1999,” he said cautiously. Ron sent him a subtle, but nonetheless irritated glance. They weren’t supposed to give suspects clues that might aid them in manipulating their situation.

“Tuesday, cold and rainy, solar eclipse, not that we could see it,” Rabastan listen, then laughed maniacally. Rabastan could have been some sort of savant for all he cared, but weather wasn’t exactly what he was after.

“What were you doing on that day?

“It was five years ago,” Rebastan muttered blandly.

He took a deep breath, knowing what he was about to say could end the investigation or bring him closer to the answer. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Lucius’ boy, eh?” Rabastan spat. “Traitor! Blood Traitor! Deserved it!”

He froze, and he could feel Ron stiffen next to him. Two words, and it was more of a lead than they’d had so far. Crazed as he was, Rabastan might just know what he’d been searching desperately for for months.

“Go on,” he said, lowering his voice.

“Death Eater? Ha! Traitor! What do you want with him anyway?”

He slammed his hand on the metal table, and as soon as he heard the reverberating ring, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake.

“Oh, I see,” Rabastan sneered, bearing each of his yellow, decaying teeth, “you want to know what happened. You _really_ want to know what happened. Hmmm, shall I tell you?”

Under the hidden safety of the table, he balled both of his hands into tight, anxious fists. He knew that involuntarily he had leaned dangerously over the edge of his seat. Months. Months of questions and dead ends and that voice, pleading, insistent, and very real, despite all the evidence against it.

“Draco Malfoy,” Rabastan giggled unsettlingly, “is dead! Ha! Dead, dead, dead, dead—”

He didn’t stay for the extended chorus. He stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him. It wasn’t possible. He _knew_ it wasn’t possible. Draco wasn’t…he wasn’t…he couldn’t be dead. It didn’t make sense.

“Harry—” Ron started, hot on his heals.

_“Stop!_ ” the voice insisted as well.

“He’s lying!” he shouted, grateful for the late hour and empty hall.

“Harry, you told us yourself, he’s not—”

“He’s just telling us what’s convenient, trying to divert our attention—”

“Harry!” Ron said more insistently, grabbing his wrist, “you’ve known from the start.”

He shook his head defiantly. He knew nothing. He knew what other people had told him. He knew what might have happened, what could have happened, he still had no idea what _had_ happened. But he knew Draco wasn’t dead, that wasn’t the ending. It wasn’t possible.

“He was already dying,” Ron tried slowly, calmly, “if Rabastan was involved, if he wasn’t…either way, the outcome was inevitable.”

“He’s not dead,” he growled, knowing it did nothing to convince wrong, knowing it only made him look more unhinged.

“You can’t argue with the truth Harry!” Ron shouted pleadingly. “The best we can hope for now is some closure for his loved ones. We can ask Rabastan for more details—”

“He’s lying,” he said again.

“Why are you so determined? Why are you so sure of this? Why do you care so much?” Ron exclaimed suddenly, all of his questions bursting out. He’d wanted to ask for a long time. They all had. “What makes this case so different from the rest?”

“I can’t—” he stopped, taking a calming breath, “I can’t explain it, but you know me, right? You know how I’ve been before, when I’ve known things I couldn’t explain to you? You always trusted me then, eventually anyway. I know what Narcissa told me, I know what the healers said. Merlin, I know what Rabastan is saying, even if he isn’t lying. I know, Ron. It’s not that I don’t know, it’s that…I know they’re wrong.”

Ron sighed and shook his head. “How?”

How? How was he supposed to explain the voice without discrediting himself even more? How was an instinct any more convincing that factual, reality-based testimony? What did he have that could possibly negate the evidence that was staring them right in the face?

“I need to keep looking.” Not “there’s more evidence to pursue.” Not “the investigation warrants further effort.” Not “I need to confirm the outcome.” No, he’d admitted to Ron that it was more than just an ordinary case. He’d admitted that it was personal.

It wasn’t unheard of for an Auror to become too involved in a case. It wasn’t even uncommon. And Ron, the understanding, supportive, faithful friend that had always been, only nodded knowingly.

“Let’s go then,” was all Ron said, stepping back towards the interrogation room. “But once we find definitive evidence, you’re going to have to accept it, you know that.”

“Definitive evidence.” It sounded like something he’d never found. He’d been running after it all this time, but it was always just beyond his reach. Looming in front of him, unreachable. If he ever found it, whatever it was, he would accept it.

_“What a lovely Gryffindor temper you’ve got there,”_ the voice commented.

“Shove off,” he replied, quiet enough that Ron couldn’t notice.

“Where are you,” he mused to the emptiness of his flat, eyes too tired to make sense of the words on the pages anymore. Still, he knew there was no hope of falling asleep, he’d have to make another pot of coffee soon enough.

_“I can’t,”_ the voice said, sounding like the static on an old TV.

“Why not?”

There was a pregnant pause. _“I can’t maintain the connection much longer.”_

“How much longer?” he asked anxiously. He’d known it wouldn’t last forever. The words were strained now, and the silence was longer. It used to be that the voice would answer right away, but now it was a rare occasion to hear anything at all.

_“If I try,”_ it started, _“if I try to tell you…that’ll be the end.”_

The end. It felt inevitable and unattainable all at once. Logically, there had to be an end to everything, but this…this felt like it would go on forever. He’d watched the calendar pages fly off the wall like something out of a children’s movie. Spring had come full of hope and promise, the summer months had dragged on, the heat only mirroring his frustration. Now, the bitterness of winter had returned, and with it, the empty feeling that it was all almost over.

“Is it even possible?” he asked, hoping that the truth, as terrible as it might be, was better than never knowing.

_“If this is the end,”_ the voice said, barely a whisper in the open air, _“then for what it counts, thank you. Even if this is…I know you tried your best.”_

He waited, for what he didn’t know. For the voice to say something, for something to change, for…something. He waited, barely moving, barely breathing.

And then it hit him, all at once, like an oncoming train, consuming him.

_“I’ve got to run Pans,” he interrupted quickly, then with one last look added, “let’s meet up again soon.”_

_Out of sight, he thought repeatedly as he exited the pub. The last thing he needed was for someone to spot him, for someone to spoil all his hard work. Not when he’d left things so perfectly._

_“Draco Malfoy,” a raspy voice cackled from the open end of the alleyway. He hadn’t even noticed he’d started walking down it._

_“Took you long enough,” he said boldly, far enough away that no one would see the way he was shaking, “uncle,” he added smugly, appreciating the look of revolt that crossed Rabastan’s face. “You think you’re the first to come after me?”_

_“They’ve all failed, but I won’t,” Rabastan growled, voice low and grave. He knew he wasn’t lying._

_It could have been days or weeks, months maybe. Every day passed in the same way. They would wake him up by shoving a tray of stale bread and table scraps towards him, give him a few hours to recuperate and brace himself, and then it would start again. He knew what curses felt like, he’d experienced more than his fair share, and they were hardly the most original or creative torturers he’d been on the receiving end of. He could tolerate it, once again grateful for his occlumency training. It was just a question of how much longer his body could._

_He knew they weren’t trying to get information from him or ransom him off as a captive. No, this was personal. This was more than just resentment for betraying the Dark Lord’s cause. This was more than just being able to live in the light while Rabastan was forced into the shadows. This was more than the luxury of a warm bed and a full meal. This was for his brother. This was his punishment for killing Rodolphus._

_With absolutely certainty, he knew this would be the end, and the dark, damp cell with mould ridden wallpaper would be the last thing he ever saw._

Darkness. He’d fallen asleep, he realized, and with a glance at the clock was instantly running to grab his robes. No time for showers, no time for clean clothes, there was only time to get to the office, assemble the haphazard team that had come together, and find Draco.

It wasn’t a location, he thought with some degree of frustration, it wasn’t anything as conclusive as coordinates, but it was something. It was the absolute knowledge that Rabastan was behind it, and that somewhere in that crazed mind, he knew where Draco was. And if it was the last thing he did, he would get that information out of him. Auror protocol be damned.

“How do you _know_ that it was him?” Ron asked an hour later, hunched miserably over the conference table, clearly not overly enthused about being called into work at three in the morning.

“ _Why_ did he do it?” Blaise added, the questions lining up.

“Because Draco killed Rodolphus. It was revenge.”

“That was never on file,” Neville said with a confused look, “how can you know that if it was never on file?”

“You’ve been so sure that he was alive from the start,” Ron murmured, “what aren’t you telling us?”

He took a deep breath. It wasn’t time yet, he couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t believe a word he said if he did. “Soon, okay? I’ll explain everything soon. But right now, I don’t think we have much time left.”

Blaise was the first one to move. “Alright, what do you need me to do?”

“Rabastan had a second safehouse, or someone close to him did. I think that’s where Draco is. It would probably be close enough to the first one that travel between the two was easy, or maybe they were linked somehow. Take Neville with you. Go back over what you’ve already found.”

They both nodded, which only left Ron, who, despite his scepticism, looked just as ready to find Draco as any of them.

“We’re going to talk to Rabastan,” he decided, and Ron stood up to follow him.

“He’s still alive then?” Ron asked as they walked briskly through the corridor.

“Yes,” he answered. “Or he was,” he thought but didn’t add. He couldn’t afford to think that way.

They made their way to the transfer points, the only link between the wizarding world and Azkaban. He hoped that the warden would be as accommodating as the rest had been.

It had taken three frantic owls and a floo call, and another half hour waiting for the warden to return early from her Sunday lie in. She didn’t look pleased, and sent him a look as if to say, “you’re lucky you’re Harry Potter.” He was glad to know his name still carried some weight, not that he would take advantage of it under normal circumstances, of course.

“And this is absolutely an emergency,” the warden clarified as she led them down the cell lined hallways, “because normally we require prior contact and clearance.”

“A man’s life depends on it,” he assured her, and she nodded, begrudgingly accepting his explanation.

Rabastan looked overjoyed to see them, which was both unsettling and of no real consequence. “Harry Potter, you just couldn’t stay away!”

“Draco Malfoy didn’t kill your brother,” he said immediately, “I did.”

Rabastan leaned back as far as he could in his chair, recoiling from what he’d just said. Ron looked equally stunned. “That’s not possible.”  
“It is. I killed him during the Final Battle. He didn’t even have time to fight back.”

Rabastan cracked an unhinged smile. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” he continued, “but you tortured Draco for nothing.”

“He deserved what he got! Filth! Traitor! I didn’t do anything to him that he didn’t deserve.” There it was. A confession. And Rabastan seemed to realize it as well.

“Where is he?” Ron said suddenly, catching their fleeting opportunity to get the truth.

“Ha! Why would I tell you?” Rabastan licked his lips, waiting for their offer.

“How does fifteen years sound?” he bluffed. Ron didn’t make any outward sign of it, but he could sense his hesitation. They had no authority to grant leniency, and they would never get it for someone like Rabastan.

Which he knew, of course, and so no one outside of the room would ever know that he’d offered it.

“Fifteen, eh?” Rabastan mumbled, eyes flicking around the room. “Ever been to Bristol, Potter? All those colourful houses, that water?”

He knew that was as much as they were going to get. He didn’t wait around for more evasive comments, and as soon as Rabastan realized there was no deal, he wasn’t going to be telling them anymore. He ran towards the transfer points, Ron hot on his heals.

They made it back to the conference room in record time, throwing the door open. “Bristol,” was all he said, and Blaise started flipping through the stack of papers in front of him.

“You’re sure?” Blaise asked, a single sheet clutched tightly in his hands.

“Yes,” he decided, even though the time for certainty had long passed.

“I found one years ago, but there were no connections to wanted Death Eaters, and no possibilities in the area. We never followed through.”

“He’s there,” he breathed.

Then, after a pause, Neville stood up and said, “well, what are we waiting for then?”

“I haven’t analysed all the possible traps, I have no idea what we would be walking into,” Blaise started anxiously.

“There isn’t time,” he finished. They would be going into it blind. But Draco had been right about one thing, the connection was gone. He had no way of knowing if he was still alive. They couldn’t sit and wait any longer.

Then he remembered that he was asking three people, people who had loved ones and families, to follow him into something they had no way of preparing for. He was asking them to risk their wellbeing on his word that Draco Malfoy was still alive and that he was in grave danger. Worst of all, they all seemed to be willing to do just that.

“I should go alone,” he said, to the surprised head turns of all three. “Blaise, you’re getting married next month, and Neville, you’re just back from your honeymoon. Ron, you’re going to be a father soon—yes, I know I’m not supposed to know yet, but I’ve been your best friend since we were eleven, I put two and two together—anyway, I can’t ask you all to come with me.”

Blaise laughed then, loudly and genuinely. “Well, Draco was right about that after all,” he whispered, “can you get your head out of you hero-complex, self-sacrificing ass? Draco was my friend, if you can remember. I’m not doing this for your sake, Harry, I’m doing it for his.”

“Dido,” Neville said awkwardly, “well, that is---I became an Auror because I wanted to help people. We all did. From the first day I knew that my life was on the line, but that’s part of the job. If I can save just one person, it’s worth it, isn’t it? Luna understands that.”

“I second all of that, or whatever,” Ron added eloquently, looking less determined and more annoyed by his agreement.

“What are we waiting for then?” he asked, smiling for what felt like the first time in months.

He’d found that places deeply affected by dark magic had an eerie stillness. Usually, when he stepped outside, there was a feeling of life. The sound of people, traffic, birds, the feeling of the wind, the smells of the season. Places like this were devoid of all of it, like they existed in a vacuum unto themselves. There was just…nothing. Maybe that’s what added to the suspense, made the unknown seem so much more sinister.

Blaise had gotten them through the entrance in one piece, which was something. They’d even made it down several dead ends and back again without being seriously maimed. They worked well together, he thought, if nothing else. Always watching each other’s backs, firing at any traps that shot out at them.

Blaise stopped suddenly, nearly knocking the rest of them over as them came crashing into him. “There’s got to be a better way,” Blaise muttered through gasping breathes.

He bent over, taking the momentary break to catch his breath. Blaise was right, they couldn’t just keep running down every corridor that presented itself. It was like they were stuck in some never-ending—“It’s a labyrinth,” he said.

“It’s a labyrinth,” Blaise repeated, understanding spreading across his face. “It’s a labyrinth!”

“It’s a labyrinth,” Ron and Neville echoed, although neither one looked quite sure why that was so significant.

“There’s a rune,” Blaise started, turning and frantically scanning the walls, “it’ll be a circle, sort of, with a few lines…just…sort of like you would expect a rune for yarn to look like.”

He vaguely remembered reading about Theseus and the Minotaur somewhere, how he’d been tasked with killing the monster. He’d fallen in love with a princess and she’d given him a ball of yarn, so that once he’d succeeded, he would be able to retrace his steps out of the unpassable labyrinth.

“They would have needed to find the way out,” he mused aloud.

“Exactly!” Blaise said excitedly, “and I think I’ve found it.”

He watched as Blaise pointed his wand at an inscription so small he would have easily missed it. Then, with a few words he couldn’t quite make out, the rune started glowing, and a bright, golden strand extended from it across the floor.

One going to their left, one going to their right. One pointing their way out, and one pointing to…Draco.

A blinding light shot past him before he could so much as raise his wand in defence. He was thrown back several feet, landing painfully on his side. Something had snapped, he knew, judging by the intense shooting pains radiating from his ribs. He forced himself to his feet despite it, no time to worry about injuries that wouldn’t kill him.

It took a moment for the dust to settle. The rest looked about the same, disgruntled but more or less in one piece.

Except Ron. Ron hadn’t moved at all.

Neville got to him first, gently rolling him onto his back and placing a shaking finger to his pulse.

“He’s still alive,” Neville sighed loudly, he watched for another tense moment until Ron let out fairly regular sounding breath.

“Stunning spell, I think,” Blaise decided, quickly making his own assessment, “he should be fine.”

“Neville,” he said urgently, “take the path to the right, it’s the way out.” He couldn’t be sure, there wasn’t exactly a neon green exit sign, but something told him, some gut instinct screamed that Draco was somewhere to their left. “Take Ron and get help.”

Neville looked at him hesitantly for a moment but nodded decisively. “Be careful,” was all he said before half carrying, half levitating the unresponsive form next to him.

“How do you know that’s the right direction?” Blaise asked once they were out of sight.

He clenched his jaw grimly. “I don’t, but if we don’t hurry, we’ll never know.”

It was worse with two people, they weren’t nearly as well defended. They moved faster now, with less caution, the time for hesitation long passed. At least they managed to outrun most of the spells they couldn’t defend against, or maybe they were just fewer so far in. Either way, the few stinging sensations he felt didn’t slow them down.

Blaise held his own remarkably well for someone without proper training, he thought, but the idea was quickly forgotten as another curse hurdled towards them.

Then, all of sudden, they were at the end. It took him a moment to realize the trail hadn’t vanished, it was still there, extending like a life line behind them. No, it wasn’t gone. They had just reached the end of it.

“What now?” he whispered, looking at the empty, door-less walls around them.

“There,” Blaise answered, pointing at an empty space just in front of them. “It’s so poorly guarded, it’s too easy—”

“You’re telling me he’s right there?” he interrupted, moving urgently towards whatever invisible barrier separated them.

“Simple concealment charm,” Blaise said, taking a step next to him, and in one fluid motion, where there had been nothing, there was now a solid, real door.

He stared at it, knowing that whatever lay on the other side was the end of it all. The end of the case. The end of the mystery. The end of the terror and worry that had consumed him. The end of the frustration and dread. The end of whatever had formed between the two of them. Whatever lay on the other side, it was the undeniable, irreversible truth.

“Go find the others, make sure they got out,” he breathed, and Blaise instantly moved to protest, “make sure they got help. We’ll need it, I’m sure.”

Blaise stared at him with something bordering on betrayal, which quickly shifted into understanding. He was shielding him from all of the possibilities of what was waiting on the other side. Blaise left without another word, and then it was just him and cold, wooden door.

“Well, here goes,” he whispered, forcing a trembling hand towards the door knob. It practically vibrating with magical energy, full of the promise of either miracle or tragedy. He turned it slowly, revelling in the resounding, metallic click.

A shiver ran down his spine, but with the last resolve he could muster, he pulled the door open.

Silence. Silence and all-consuming darkness. He retrieved his wand and cast a silent lumos.

_Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light._

It was dim, probably all he could summon at the moment. It did cast enough light to appreciate how morose and grim the room was. Devoid of almost any furniture, damp and full of the smell of rot, and totally and completely isolated.

As he turned towards the second half of the room, he saw it. A metal, wire bed frame, a pile of ragged blankets, and the unmistakable shape of something underneath them.

The realization was enough to send him staggering back a few paces. The form hadn’t moved, hadn’t responded. He took several laboured steps forward, grabbing on corner and pulling it back enough to reveal that famous, uncopiable pale, blonde hair.

It was him. It was Draco. And he was—

A small, pitiful cough, so quiet he might have missed it. Then it happened again. Never had he imagined such an unremarkable sound could cause him so much relief. He was alive.

He leapt forward, landing on his knees by the side of the bed.

“Draco!” he shouted, loud enough for a single eyebrow to quirk upwards. “Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

Another cough and a shaky breath. “Help,” came the pathetic whisper.

It was motivation enough for him to snap back into action. He sent a haphazard Patronus in the direction he hoped the rest had exited, praying that it managed to reach them.

It was all going to be okay, he thought, just in time for the door to slam shut.

It was too easy. Blaise had been right.

A hot, blazing light consumed him, and then there was nothing.

He flinched, cognisant of bright light all around him again. Except this time nothing happened, no pain, no numbness. Was he dead? No, that wasn’t right either. He could hear movement around him, the sound of life. He wasn’t in the Labyrinth, and he wasn’t dead either. Which left only one option.

He cracked a single eye open and scanned his surroundings. A hospital, he realized, recognizing the familiar pastel wallpaper of St. Mungo’s. So he was alive after all. Maybe a bit worse for wear, but still breathing.

Draco. Where was Draco? Had he made it out alive as well? The rest of them?

His eyes drifted around the room until they caught the outline of the only other occupant. None other than a gaunt, haggard looking Draco Malfoy. Who was, at present, curled up in an unfathomably tiny ball in a chair at his bedside, one hand wrapped limply around his own.

He coughed politely, not sure he wanted to wake the equally ill look person beside him. However, it was loud enough for Draco to nearly shoot out of his seat.

“Ah, you’re alive then,” Draco drawled almost indifferently, but the relief in his eyes gave him away.

“Was there ever any doubt?” he asked, deciding that “worse for wear” might have been an under-estimate

Draco yawned loudly, uncurling from his position. “Maybe for the first day or two.”

Days? He realized, almost shooting up before realizing the sudden movement was definitely not in his best interest. “How long has it been?”

“A week maybe? I haven’t really gotten a grasp of time yet.” Draco scanned the room, as if to search for some evidence for his statement.

“Have you been here the whole time?” he asked, realizing too late how pathetic he sounded.

“Well, you see, they won’t let me leave, and sitting in a room all by myself is still a bit…too fresh,” he winced, “and I suppose you _did_ save me, so I might as well occupy myself with making sure you didn’t die. Idiot. I don’t suppose you know how binding a life dept is?”

He laughed, sure that whatever a life debt was it didn’t warrant constant supervision. “What about Ron? Neville?” he pressed anxiously.

“Ron, Neville, and _Blaise_ —don’t suppose he’ll be happy to hear you’ve forgotten about him already—are all perfectly fine. Worried about you, I suppose they’ll be barging in any moment now.”

He leaned back for a moment. “So it’s really over then,” he mused.

“As it’ll ever be.”

A healer came in then, looking a little too surprised that he’d woken up. She hurried around the room for a few minutes, checking his vitals, making sure he was comfortable, then with a vaguely warning glance at Draco, left again.

“So, you’re not dying then?” he tried to clarify.

“Oh, no, I expect I still am,” Draco smirked at his horrified expression, “but I think I’ve got a few decades left in me anyway.”

“The six months was just a cover,” he realized.

“See? You’re not nearly as dense as I thought you were.”

“I did manage to find you, didn’t I?”

“Strange, that,” Draco clucked. “Any _sane_ person would have given up. Why didn’t you?”

“Why did you choose to talk to me of all people? There were other people who would have tried to find you.”

“Why did you go running into a safe house without the slightest preparation? You had no idea what you were up against. You’re lucky no one got seriously injured, well, besides yourself, and even then…”

“Why didn’t you ask for help in the first place? You knew what was going to happen and you just let it.”

“Well I didn’t know they were going to keep me _alive_ —”

“And that makes it better?!”

“You weren’t supposed to care!” Draco shouted, loud enough for the healer to make her way back in.

“Both of you,” she snapped, sounding like a teacher who’d had enough of her students’ juvenile disputes, “are still patients, and if I think you’re upsetting each other, I will separate you.”

They both nodded solemnly, and she seemed satisfied enough to leave again, propping the door open several inches this time.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked softly.

“No one was supposed to care,” Draco admitted, “not enough to look for me. I made myself sicker, I started behaving oddly, I invented an entire timeline to support my disappearance being of my own design. I just…hoped they would assume the worst and move on. And it worked, didn’t it? My mother, my friends, they accepted that. But you, of course it was you, you had to…solve the case.”

“I wasn’t just solving a case,” he mumbled. “They said I could close it months ago.”

“Why didn’t you?” Draco asked, looking at him with an unrecognizable intensity.

“Any sane person would have,” he repeated, and cracked a half-hearted, hopeful smile.

“Merlin you’re ridiculous,” Draco chastised, but smiled despite himself.

The healers had forced visitors to come in groups, claiming too much stimulation could worsen his condition. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but he also couldn’t say he wasn’t grateful for their orders. Even broken down the crowd was…overwhelming.

Ron and Hermione were the first ones there, not that it was any surprise. Hermione had been on the brink of tears, _hormones_ she’d said, acknowledging the secret he’d already figured out. She’d scolded them both, extensively and in much detail, even though he had a feeling Ron had already been told off several times. When she turned her wrath onto Draco, well, that was something none of them expected. Least of all Draco, who had looked much the same as he had during third year, right after she’d slapped him.

Blaise stopped by briefly, just long enough to say, “I told you so,” and make sure that his small contribution hadn’t been forgotten in the never ending saga of the Chosen One’s bravery. It was all a façade, he knew, and deep down, Blaise had been just as concerned as the rest. At least more grateful, maybe, for finding Draco when everyone else had given up.

Even Robards had passed by, claiming to be in a hurry, not able to chat for long, but toting what looked like the entire department’s get well soon basket. For someone who was supposed to be recovering, they’d sent an inappropriate volume of alcohol. Although the Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans weren’t a half bad idea. He’d tossed a second package to Draco and challenged him to a roulette-type match. He’d lost on his second move, a very potent dose of skunk weed.

By the time visiting hours were over, he’d wanted nothing more than some peace and quiet. That is, until the healers attempted to force Draco back to his own room. Then, somehow, he’d decided he didn’t want to be so alone after all. Torn between his health and his celebrity status, they’d eventually conceded to conjuring a second bed with the stern warning that any excitement or agitation wouldn’t be tolerated. The latter with a pointed glance at Draco, who hardly seemed to notice.

“Did you have visitors before?” he asked into the darkness. He hadn’t wanted to point it out earlier when he was being berated by concerned friends and family, but he hadn’t missed the way Draco had sat silently in the corner of the room, detached from the crowd in more than one way.

“My mother visited a few days ago,” Draco murmured, “she was…happy, I suppose. We have a complicated relationship.”

“She begged me to find you.” _Your body_ , he remembered but didn’t say.

Draco made a noncommittal sound and rearranged his blankets. “I could have gone back to my own room.”

He thought to point out the obvious, but remembered how much it had always bothered him, the pitying looks, the concerned questions. “You think this is for your benefit?” he scoffed dramatically. “No, you see, I have my house elf sing me to sleep every night, I wouldn’t be able to if he didn’t, but since he’s not here, I thought that maybe you could—”

He was cut off by Draco’s pillow smacking softly against the side of his cot, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “You’re insufferable, did you know that?”

“That’s a bit rich coming from you, don’t you think?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco cried indignantly.

“It means shut up or they’ll come back in here,” he shushed, “and I for one am terrified of them.”

He took Draco’s silence as agreement.

“What I said before, I meant it.”

He could have laughed at the pain in Draco’s voice. “Oh, you mean the whole ‘for what it counts, thank you’? Would it hurt that much to say it again?”

Silence.

“I did almost die,” he pushed.

Draco mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “thanks.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Thank you!” Draco hissed finally.

“Now was that so bad?”

“Are you satisfied now?”

“Maybe,” he gloated, “but maybe you should explain exactly what a life debt entails.”

“You didn’t die,” Draco stated boredly.

“I could have,” he continued, fully aware of how petulant he sounded.

“Remind me not to be around next time you get the flu.”

“Are you planning on being around,” he started awkwardly, “I mean, in the future? You’ll still…be here?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Draco whispered, just as nervously, “I suppose I might be.”

On the third day, the healers gave him permission to walk around the grounds, granted he had someone there to supervise him. Draco, still not discharged, much to his irritation, became the most convenient choice. And on a rare, sunny, London day, he was more grateful than ever just to sit outside, enjoying the warmth.

“Why haven’t they let you leave yet, just out of curiousity,” he asked a peevish Draco, who was hiding under the shielded protection of a large oak tree. “I burn easily,” he’d answered before he had a chance to comment.

“I imagine they’re still searching for something to be wrong with me,” Draco mused, his frustration at his continued “confinement,” as he’d put it, barely contained, “I did falsify my way into a terminal diagnosis a few years ago.”

“Do you think they’re right? That there is something wrong with you?”

Draco looked at him blandly. “Are you seriously asking, knowing what I’ve been through, knowing what the last six years have been like, if I am somehow alright? Yes, Harry, they’re right. But I think they’re a bit more concerned by the fact that I should be long dead and now I’m in fairly functioning order.”

“Right,” he said, trying to mask his confusion, “but you’re…okay?”

“Yes, Harry,” Draco confirmed, cracking the slightest smile, “I’m ‘okay.’”

“We’ll both be gone soon then.”

“Thank Merlin for that.”

“Where’ll you go?” He thought uncomfortably of the emptiness of Grimmauld Place, and the mountains of research he’d need to clear away as soon as he got home.

“Mother sold the Manor, did you know? Not that I ever wanted to go back.”

“Do you think you’ll go stay with her? You did pay for the place.”

“No,” Draco answered, clearly already having made the decision, “I’ll look for something local. Try to get my old job back, if they’ll have me.”

“You could stay with me, just until you find a place, anyway,” he tried sounding far less invested than he actually was. Not that he wanted Draco Malfoy to come live with him, of course, only the company might not be unappreciated. And for some reason the thought of not speaking to him every day was…unsettling.

“What’s in it for you?”

What a Slytherin, he thought, always looking for hidden motives.

“Call it closure.”

Draco stared at him for a moment. “I’ll think about it.”

He decided to take that as a grateful “yes.”

“You never did tell me how you did it,” he started, and Draco raised a confused eyebrow, “the whole, um, talking in my head.”

Draco cracked a smile. “Ask Hermione about it, she can explain it better than I can.”

“You told _Hermione_ about it?” he asked, maybe more surprised that Draco and Hermione had had a civil conversation than anything else.

“She was the only one smart enough to ask,” he stated, as if it weren’t unusual at all, “and the only one smart enough to understand the answer.”

“So you’ll tell her, and not me?”

“Maybe one day,” Draco said cryptically, and proceeded to lie back on the shaded bench, signifying that the conversation had ended. Another thing that hadn’t changed, Draco Malfoy was just as dramatic as he ever had been.

It was nice though, he thought, being able to talk to him like this, face to face, knowing that there was no looming peril they had to avoid. Now that the case had been solved, that Draco Malfoy had officially been marked “found,” he found that he quite liked the time they spent together, and that their meaningless conversations could go on for hours, knowing that when they ended, it wasn’t truly the end.

His “Welcome Home” party, thrown entirely against his express wishes, had hastily been turned into “their” welcome home party. It was remarkable how quickly his friends had accepted Draco. Whether it was for his sake or because they’d truly seen how much Draco had changed, he chose not to consider. It hardly mattered. Watching the wonder on Draco’s face every time he was acknowledged in a genuinely friendly manner was more than enough.

Hardships had a way of doing that, bringing people together, morphing the old ways into something new. It was for the best, he decided, watching the awkward way Draco tried to accept everyone’s best wishes. It was something between anxious and confused. He’d get used to it. If there was one thing he knew about his friends, it was that they didn’t give up easily, and they rarely took no for an answer.

“So, what do you think?” Blaise asked, coming up next to him, “think you’ll keep him around?”

That anyone could “keep” Draco Malfoy was impossible. He was far too stubborn and invested in his own independence. “I’d like to make sure he doesn’t disappear again, if that’s what you mean.”

Blaise looked at him curiously for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, it looks like I’ve ‘successfully rejuvenated’ your love life then.”

He choked on his drink, _virgin_ drink, Hermione had insisted, even as Ron slipped him his own very much _not_ -virgin glass. “You sure the healers gave you a thorough one over?”

“My mistake,” Blaise corrected, as if he hadn’t made any mistake at all, “I just thought that maybe you’d done us all a favour and put an end to the miserable cat and mouse game we’ve all been forced to endure since—well, since we were eleven years old.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He didn’t, he assured himself. No, not at all. There had never been anything between them. _Obsession_ , like he’d said. They had been _obsessed_ with irritating each other. He’d been _obsessed_ with proving Draco’s guilt. That was all, obviously.

“Did Draco mention Eric, you know, his old co-worker? He’s been talking about him for days, about how excited he is for the interview. Said he might try to rekindle their old flame.”

“ _Eric Dresden_?” he muttered, picturing the concerned man from the memories. He wasn’t much of a looker, not exactly someone he could picture Draco with. Not someone he _wanted_ to picture Draco with. “He hasn’t mentioned him, no. They were an item? I mean, it had been six years. Maybe things have changed. Besides, he’s only just back, it’s hardly the right time to be rushing into things.”

Blaise smiled at him, a terrible smile that meant he’d just been exposed. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m just concerned for his well-being,” he tried.

“Of course.”

“I mean, I did save his life. I’d rather he not make any rash decisions.”

“Sure.”

“Getting back with an ex is never a good idea. I’d be concerned for any of my friends.”

“No doubt.”

It was infuriating. Jealousy was not an emotion he was too familiar with. Maybe watching Ginny with Dean sixth year, but even then…it wasn’t the same. Not really. They had been too young and naïve to really understand their feelings. Maybe he’d been so deeply closeted he’d convinced himself that that was how he was supposed to feel, that he was supposed to end up with her. What a ridiculous idea.

No, it was different now. Not that he was about to admit it. The image of Draco flirting with the far inferior Eric Dresden didn’t bother him at all. Why should it? They were all adults. Draco was free to be with whoever he wanted.

“You’re bluffing,” he realized, turning to glare at Blaise, but he’d already moved on, no doubt to discuss his upcoming nuptials. He’d been auctioning off invitations all week, behaving like it was the social event of the season. Not fully appreciating that a few dozen wizards at a strictly non-magic wedding might have been the slightest bit dangerous.

“Are they giving you apple juice as well?” Draco asked, appearing behind him so suddenly he nearly pulled his wand out, convinced there was some imminent threat.

“Uh, yes,” he muttered unconvincingly.

“Liar,” Draco clucked, not fooled for a moment, “give us a sip then.”

He hesitated, knowing fully that to refuse would have been hypocritical, but also fully aware of just how weak Draco was. He’d seen, accidentally, while they were still at St. Mungo’s. Draco hadn’t closed the door fully when he’d gone to shower. He was all skin and bones, every inch covered by an elaborate pattern of scars. He looked like…well, like a man who’d been kept in captivity for six years.

He passed the glass over anyway.

Draco gagged as soon as he took his first sip. “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’ve lost my taste for alcohol.”

“Probably for the best,” he mused, unconsciously putting the cup down once it was passed back to him.

“This is nice,” Draco said, putting on a wide smile.

“Really?”

“Not at all,” he admitted, the smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “I mean, it’s a nice gesture. Just this many people…socializing has never been my forte. And so much time in isolation has certainly not improved the matter.”

He nodded in the direction of the back garden. “Feel like stepping out?”

It didn’t take much convincing. In fact, Draco was out the door before he could grab his coat. Draco had forgotten his, and he might have believed he honestly wasn’t bothered by the freezing cold. That is, if he wasn’t shivering so much. Without thinking, he shrugged his own thick, woollen jacket off and wrapped it around him.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Draco laughed with a weak smile.

“You should start taking better care of yourself.” It came out as much more of an order than he meant. Angry even, and he didn’t miss the fleeting look of fear in Draco’s eyes.

“I’m afraid that might take some adjusting.”

He had a feeling Draco hadn’t taken care of himself long before he’d been abducted. Even before the war, maybe. He’d seemed oddly content deteriorating the way he had. Then again, he’d never really had anyone to take care of him. He decided—no, he definitely hadn’t decided to fill that role. Draco could take care of himself. And even if he couldn’t, there was no reason for it to become his job.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Do you remember Eric Dresden?”

“Eric Dresden,” Draco repeated slowly, annunciating every letter, trying to remember, “he used to work with me, right?”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all,” he asked, “what’s that supposed to mean? Of course that’s all. Why?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he muttered quickly, cursing Blaise for even planting that seed.

“No, what about Eric has you so curious?”

“Nothing at all.”

“So why did you ask?”

“Just making conversation?” he lied, obviously, given the tiny squeak he’d ended with.

“Alright, you can keep your secrets.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“How’s Ginny these days?” Draco asked, out of the blue.

“Uh, playing for the Harpies. Raising the standards for the entire league.” Merlin, he hadn’t thought about her in ages. They saw each other every Christmas at the Burrow, and he went to her matches every time she sent home box tickets. There was no animosity between them, but they’d sort of…drifted apart over the years.

“She got married, a few years back. Her teammate. Took up a month’s worth of Seeker Weeklies. The entire fantasy league had no idea who to be betting on.”

“Good for her,” Draco mused cryptically.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just making conversation?”

There it was. Or, he thought it was there. But maybe he was imagining. Maybe it was just polite small talk. Catching up on old acquaintances. Or maybe…no, what was he thinking? Nothing. There was nothing else going on.

“It’s freezing out here. I’m going back inside.”

He accepted the jacket that was handed back to him. He didn’t put it back on, nor did he follow him. He kept standing there for what felt like hours, looking up at the starless, light polluted sky. Futilely trying to convince himself that there was absolutely nothing going on and that he was feeling absolutely nothing.

It was all Blaise Zabini’s fault, he decided, and returned just in time to see the last guests off. Then he was alone with Draco, his friend. His strictly platonic, very much not attractive, very much not enticing friend.

Going Christmas shopping in Diagon Alley had been a terrible idea. He hadn’t even considered what it was going to be like beforehand. How had he not considered it? “Draco Malfoy’s First Public Appearance” was destined to create waves. Even worse, Draco hadn’t said a thing about it. He’d just gone along, no doubt knowing what he would face.

As if the horror-struck glances and barely concealed whispering wasn’t bad enough, the press had gotten news of their appearance before they even made it to their second stop. They were merciless, maybe more so than what he normally faced. Except this time they weren’t taking pictures of him. He could tolerate the harassment, he was used to it. They were focusing entirely on Draco, who looked ready to crumble onto the pavement.

Even so, he’d kept insisting they keep going. Walking through the crowds, trying his best to look unphased. He wasn’t succeeded, at least not to him. He could see how anxious Draco was, how cornered he felt, how overwhelmed he was.

He reached out and gripped his trembling clammy hand without thinking. Purely out of concern for his wellbeing, which wasn’t a complete lie for a change. He very pragmatically decided that if Draco was going to faint, which wasn’t at all inconceivable, he’d be close enough to make sure he didn’t seriously injure himself.

Draco didn’t flinch away, he almost accepted the gesture, returning his strong grip. And for a moment everything was alright, until the press found this recent development even more newsworthy, and quickly redoubled their efforts.

They ducked into the nearest door, closing it tightly behind them, hoping the laws about private property were still somewhat respected. He hadn’t even processed where they had ended up before a blur of tweed and linen came crashing into Draco, ripping his hand from his grip.

“I can’t believe it,” a girl muttered. It was Gwen, he realized after a beat. “I mean, we read the paper, but look at you…you’re…you’re really…”

“Alive?” Draco finished, and she blushed.

“Back,” she corrected, “here, in the shop.”

“It hasn’t changed much,” Draco mused, taking it all in. “It hasn’t changed at all, actually. Doesn’t anyone bother to clean the place?”

“Only you,” she quipped. “Oh! Eric will be so please! He’s just in the back, I’ll go grab him.”

He tensed despite himself, even knowing that there had never been anything between him and Draco. Even then, he felt that novel sense of jealousy creeping up.

“Draco!” Eric practically shrieked, emerging from behind the counter and attacking Draco with the same ferocity Gwen had. He couldn’t suppress the exasperate eye-roll that crept up on him.

“Eric, you’re looking well.”

“You too!” Eric returned, even as he looked at the obviously not-well Draco. “I don’t suppose you’ve come back looking for a job?”

He looked back at him. Draco actually looked back at him. As if he had something to do with his answer. “Not yet, but maybe one day.”

Hadn’t Draco wanted his job back? He’d said it at the hospital. He’d been sure of it. What had changed? Moreover, why did he matter? Or maybe the glance at been nothing at all. Draco wasn’t in any condition to be working anyway. He must have known that.

“Any time you want it,” Eric said, almost disappointed. “Do you know how many customers complained after you left? Said the potions weren’t as effective. I am a Master, you know. I should have been able to brew them at least as well as you did.”

“But you always follow the directions,” Draco commented, as if it were the obvious answer. It didn’t make any sense to him, nor did it to Eric. “And I had a great teacher who taught me that there’s always room for improvement.”

He remembered the Half-Blood Prince’s book suddenly. The instructions that had allowed him to best even Hermione. It had been Snape’s. Draco’s “great teacher” apparently. “There’s always room for improvement,” Draco had said. Strange, how much those words resonated.

“You see, that’s why we need you around.”

He was starting to believe Blaise. At least from a one-sided perspective anyway. Draco didn’t seem nearly as fascinated by Eric as Eric was by him. And why would he? Eric was—no, he wasn’t comparing himself to Eric. He wasn’t noting that he was probably better than him in all aspects. Why would he?

“The next time I’m looking for a job, you’ll be my first stop,” Draco promised. It made sense. Draco was good at potions. Great, maybe. He should work in an apothecary. So why did he suddenly want to make sure Draco never looked for a job again?  
“I think they’ve gone,” he interrupted, looking at the paparazzi-less street, “and I for one am ready to go home.”

Draco looked at him with something bordering on…relief. They’d hardly made it through half of his shopping list. It didn’t matter. He’d owl-order the rest of them. Clearly, going out publicly had been a failed experiment, and he wasn’t sure Draco would be able to tolerate any more of the sudden intrigue in his life.

He didn’t even process how strange it was that he was suddenly prioritizing the needs of someone he’d once hated, someone who, until recently, had almost been a stranger. He didn’t even notice his abandoned Christmas list in his haste to make sure Draco was okay. Not just physically, not just because he saved his life. No, it was because, just maybe, he cared about him a little bit. Maybe he cared about him more than that. Maybe he cared about him more than he should. Too much, maybe.

Christmas with the Weasleys was arguably his favourite day of the year. He was never short of someone to talk to, and the entertainment he gained from watching the siblings bicker over meaningless things, or even better, when Molly scolded them for behaving like children, was enough to melt away any hardships he was facing.

Good company and good food, or whatever it was they said. If he had been deprived of good Christmases as a child, the Weasleys certainly made sure he would never need to live without again. Sometimes, he felt as though they’d integrated him into their lives so much, he was truly one of them. He supposed in many ways he was.

Now, it seemed, they’d unanimously decided to set about the task of doing the same for Draco. He was almost positive they’d had some sort of secret family meeting to discuss the plan, but then again, the Weasleys had always been those kinds of people. The people who took one look at a suffering person and no matter who they were, no matter what they’d done, decided to take care of them. They were a large family intent on becoming even larger. Even as spouses arrived, even as grandchildren were born, there were always enough seats at their table. Although, he swore Molly extended it ever year, to the point that someday it would go right out the front door.

He sat half listening to Charlie recount his latest Dragon-related adventures, a subject he was overly fond of after the events of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, half trying to decipher whatever Draco and Fleur were talking about. It didn’t surprise him to find out Draco was fluent in French, and it didn’t surprise him that he’d immediately gravitated towards Fleur in the large crowd of rambunctious Weasleys.

Draco had tolerated a remarkable amount for someone not used to the Burrow gatherings. He’d helped them de-gnome the garden, a futile task as he knew they’d move right back in as soon as they left. He’d helped set the table, upgrading the usual unorganized stack of utensils they normally received into full, formal place settings, complete with daintily folded napkins.

He’d beat Ron in three games of chess, a feat no one had ever accomplished, and something that left Ron fuming, demanding rematch after rematch until Hermione eventually dragged him away. He’d humoured Percy by listening to his latest update on broomstick regulations. He’d asked Ginny what she thought of the Harpies odds in the next season, and awkwardly agreed to a seekers match.

And he’d done it all looking…genuinely happy. But surely that had nothing to do with the warmth he was feeling, or the uncontainable smile he felt every time he saw Draco laugh alongside them. Surely that was just the eggnog and homecooked food. The Christmas Spirit, that was it.

“Present time!” Molly exclaimed gleefully, shooing everyone around the too-large tree. It wasn’t like the old days when they could comfortably sit around it, now they were piled on top of each other, sprawled on the floor, or trying to subdue sugar-high toddlers.

They opened each other’s presents, as usual, before moving on to the ceremonial Molly Weasley sweaters. He had no idea when Draco had managed to buy each and every one of them a present, or how he’d missed it. They weren’t just trinkets either, they were all thought out, tailored perfectly to each recipient. He gave Hermione a small collection of vials, labelled everything from “morning sickness” to “swollen feet.” He had a feeling they hadn’t been bought at all, that he had brewed them specifically for her. He thought Ron might have looked even more grateful than Hermione did, but then he’d opened his own parcel, an Intermediate Guide to Wizard’s Chess. Then he’d looked significantly put off and vowed to win their next tournament.

He’d given Fleur a well-worn book of French children stories for her growing brood, probably Draco’s own copy, he thought. Arthur, a subscription to a Muggle automobile magazine, and Molly, a new and improved set of magical kitchen appliances.

In the excitement, he didn’t even notice that he hadn’t gotten any gift at all. And before he had a chance to think about it, the sweaters were being dealt out, and one, wrapped in shiny, green paper placed in Draco’s lap.

He watched as Draco stared at it, even as the others began tearing theirs open.

“Why is mine always maroon?” Ron whined. It was just a joke now, he knew he’d never get anything else, even if maroon “wasn’t his colour.”

“Come one then,” he whispered, nudging Draco, “open yours.” He showed off his own, still the same blue.

It took Draco a moment before he half-heartedly tore a small piece of the parchment off, still staring at it in awe. Through the small hole, he could see a patch of brilliant green wool.

“What are you waiting for?” Ron called, meaning it well, but Draco only paled in response.

“Just,” Draco whispered, “just give me a moment,” and quickly made his way out the front door. Without a coat. Again. He followed him. Again. For his own wellbeing, of course.

“Alright?” he asked hastily, catching up to Draco, who had put as much space between himself and the Burrow as he could before stopping short.

“It all just—”

“Overwhelming?”

Draco shook his head. “No. Surreal.”

“It looked like you were having a good time,” he tried, and Draco smiled softly.

“They’re nice people.”

“They like you,” he said, genuinely, because despite their big hearts, the Weasleys weren’t just people-pleasers. The way they treated Draco, he knew they meant it.

“They like _you_ ,” Draco corrected, “and by extension—”

“Wait, you think they’re doing all this for my sake?”

Draco shrugged. “Aren’t they?”

Ridiculous, he thought, and took a step forward so that he was looking directly at him. “You know, I brought a…friend, to dinner here, a few years back,” he almost laughed at the memory of the uptight, unfriendly, but ridiculously attractive Paul, “let’s just say, they didn’t get on well. They weren’t nice to him for _my_ sake.”

“Are you comparing me to your ex-boyfriend?” Draco asked with a smirk. His heart might have skipped a beat. Or it was just the cold, he thought, and once again shrugged off his jacket for Draco to use.

“I’m just saying—”

“Of course,” Draco cut him off, sounding almost…bitter.

“I’m just saying they aren’t being nice to you because—” he stopped himself. Because what? What was he about to say? What was Draco to him now?

“Because?” Draco whispered, taking a dangerous step closer.

“Because,” he chocked, and in a pure moment of impulsivity, lunged forward, crashing his lips onto Draco’s. He was warm and cold, soft and rough, hesitant and responsive all at the same time. It could have been seconds, or it could have been hours, for all he knew. Because, he realized, he didn’t know anything anymore.

He pulled back, clearing his throat loudly. “Because…that.”

Draco smiled at him devilishly. “Because that?”

“Right.”

“Of course.”

And then it was happening again. And he knew he shouldn’t, and he knew he was playing with fire, stepping towards an abyss he knew he’d never be able to climb out of. He knew he shouldn’t, that they were supposed to just be friends, acquaintances, and that whatever this was, he wasn’t supposed to want it. But Merlin, he wanted it. He couldn’t remember when he’d started wanting it, maybe he always had. It didn’t matter, because in that moment, all that mattered was how…right it felt.

“Merry Christmas,” Draco whispered, breath hot against his cheek.

“That was my present?” Draco had planned it. Merlin, the moron had actually planned the entire night to lead up to this moment. But more importantly, why had he waited so long? Why hadn’t they been doing this for ages?

Draco laughed, then pulled away slightly. “What was his name?”

“Who?”

“The ‘friend’ you brought here.”

He furrowed his brow. “Paul. Why?”

Draco turned back towards the house. “I just like to know who I have to live up to.”

Ridiculous, he thought, no longer bothered by the cold, or the knowledge that half the Weasleys were probably watching them from the window. Ridiculous that Draco Malfoy wanted to best his ex, that Draco wanted to _take the place_ of his ex. Ridiculous that Draco thought there was ever any competition. Because from where he stood, there wasn’t a person alive who could ever compare to someone so…perfect.

“I’d better go put that sweater on,” Draco called back over his shoulder. “I imagine they’ll have to get used to me, now that you’ve decided to keep me around.”

Ridiculous.

“Stop fussing,” Draco scolded, coming up flush behind him. “It looks delicious,” and just to prove his point, he reached to grab one of the roast potatoes. He smacked his hand away.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered. “Go do your fancy napkin thing. They’ll be here any minute.”

“I already have.” Funny, he hadn’t noticed, so stress-obsessed with cooking the meal. “Can you relax? It’s not as if they don’t already know.”

He whirled around. “What’s that supposed to mean? You didn’t—”

“No, I didn’t tell them, Harry,” Draco looked at him with an infuriating amount of amusement, “but it’s not exactly going to come as a surprise. They’re your friends. They’ll have put two and two together by now. They _did_ see us on Christmas, didn’t they?”

Draco was right. He was always right. But that didn’t negate how nervous he felt. It wasn’t a big deal, really. They all liked Draco, more than he would have expected. Which wasn’t a bad thing, even if it meant they took up so much of his time. Of course they would have their suspicions. And he knew they wouldn’t react badly. Well, _logically_ he knew they wouldn’t react badly. Which didn’t settle his nerves in the slightest.

They’d been something of an…item for weeks now. Ever since Christmas, if he had to define it. Now that it was March, they’d fallen into something of a routine. Although, it hadn’t taken much adjusting at all. Almost like it had always been that way. Coming home to Draco after work. Watching Muggle movies at night. Playing Seekers matches every weekend. Arguing over who the best players were or which team would make it to the World Cup. Pretending not to be frustrated every time Draco beat him at chess, and likewise pretending not to be overly enthusiastic on the rare occasion that he won. It was easy. Easier than he would have imagined.

He wasn’t an anxious person, he’d thought. He didn’t act impulsively when he was nervous, he’d thought. Then, not a minute after they’d taken their seats, he’d cracked.

“Draco and I are together,” he choked, mortified by the large round of snickers that occurred as a result.

“Beautifully put, dear,” Draco managed, overcome by a fit of laughter.

“And this was…a secret?” Ron asked, then flinched as Hermione elbowed him. “I mean, congratulations!”

“Took you long enough,” Blaise muttered through a mouthful of food. “Which isn’t to say I’m not thrilled and all that.”

“I really happy for you both,” Neville offered, feeling the pressure to make a genuinely complimentary statement.

“And it only took you a decade,” Pansy cried, raising a toast, “here’s to knowing we’ll never stop suffering through your obsessions with each other.”

Everyone laughed at that, and he almost tried protest, but honestly couldn’t. So, he raised his own glass as well, smiling widely.

Pansy looked at him once again, an odd, predatory grin on her face. “You’ll be the last of us to get married.”

He choked, ungracefully, unattractively, and loud enough that all heads turned in his direction. A comment he should have just not reacted to at all, and let it pass quickly, without comment. How could he possibly comment? In the future, sure, but it was far too soon to be making assumptions like that. They’d only been together all of two months, and given their shared history, and who knew what tomorrow might hold, and—

Mercifully, Draco came to his rescue almost immediately. “That’s assuming we get Blaise to the alter at all. How many times have you postponed it now?”

Now it was Blaise’s turn to stare at his plate in embarrassment. “Only twice,” he muttered, “and only because I was saving your scrawny ass! And now—”

“Now what?” Pansy prodded.

“Now,” Blaise stopped, muttering the remainder of his answer. A moment of suspense followed. “Now she ‘needs’ to find a dress that will hide her, uh, that is to say…”

“You’ve knocked her up, haven’t you?” Hermione shot Pansy a rather unenthusiastic look at the crude assessment of the situation. Pansy just shrugged, having had her fourth and completely sworn off the possibility of anymore, she seemed to have lost her sympathy for the remarkable burden of carrying children.

“Out of wedlock?” Draco remarked sarcastically.

“Is that still a thing?” he asked, not sure why it bothered him. “I mean, all the old-world traditions?” Old world traditions, like Pureblood marriages and striving to secure an heir. Old world traditions that would never have permitted Draco to be with him.

Draco, Pansy, and Blaise explained a meaningful look. “What do you think? I mean, I imagine we’re all that’s left of them. Should we let prejudice and aristocracy die out?”

“You mean marry outside of our class?” Pansy clarified in mock surprise, not missing the opportunity to stare at him. “Lock up all our cursed artefacts and do away with our extensive libraries of illegal dark magic?”

“You don’t—” Ron started, before catching onto their clearly joking tone. At least, he hoped they were joking. Otherwise the Auror Department had missed quite a few things.

“Here’s to the end of the twenty-eight,” Draco decided, raising his glass again. Pansy and Blaise followed immediately, and the rest of them uneasily, not sure whether they were meant to.

“And here’s to a new era,” Blaise added.

All things considered, the night could have gone a lot worse. Sure, he might have announced their relationship a bit more eloquently. He might have behaved calmly in the face of Pansy’s unending intrigue into his private life. But something had changed. Or maybe nothing had changed at all, and the new era had begun long ago. Maybe the old ways had died seven years ago. Maybe they’d never been those angry, driven boys who despised each other. Maybe things were always meant to be this way. Call it fate or destiny, or simply one’s strange path through life. Maybe this was the inevitable conclusion.

Or maybe he was just a hopeless romantic who was in far too deep.

And so the months passed, and then the years, and eventually what had come before seemed like a distant memory. It had happened, of course. It all had. His childhood, the war, and later, finding Draco. It was just that after a while, there was no reason to keep carrying that baggage. Not when there were so many more adventures to look forward to.

There were bad times, times when the past would come creeping up. He could always move forward, but he could never forget. Even years later, the distant memory of his Uncle or the lingering images of the people he’d lost could arrive and block out all the light. Even in the life that he’d built, full of so much happiness and love, darkness could always find a place.

But whenever the bad times showed up, there were always people there to help him along. His friends and all their chaos were never a burden or annoyance, they were his motivation, his support. Ron and Hermione had never stopped coming to his rescue, it seemed. And then there was Draco, and with Draco by his side, he knew there was nothing he couldn’t face.

There was only one thing worse than dealing with his own demons, he’d decided. They were his, and no one else suffered as a result. But watching Draco be consumed by that darkness…there was no greater pain in the world. He pursued that brilliant, mischievous spark in those piercing grey eyes every day. To him, there was nothing better than the sound of Draco’s genuine, unguarded laughter. For all of that to vanish, it was crushing.

Worse still was the knowledge that he couldn’t fix it. He could make it all go away with a simple charm. How futile he felt, sitting there and being able to do nothing about it. He’d learned, after fighting in vain so many times, that the best thing he could do, the only thing he could do, was be there. To be there and not to rush him. Draco always came around eventually, and maybe, in the end, the best thing in the world was watching him light up with life again.

There were good times too, of course. Good times that far exceeded and outshined the bad. Good times that filled him with so much happiness and joy that he thought he might burst.

There was the day he woke up, suddenly consumed by the need to never be apart from Draco again. Not that he ever was, anymore. They still lived together, ate their meals together, went out together. But he needed something more. He needed a promise. He needed…

He’d rolled over, knowing the sun had barely risen, and knowing just how much Draco hated being woken up early. He hadn’t given any elaborate speeches or dramatic declarations of love, he’d simply asked the question. In the same way, Draco had simply given him the answer.

Yes.

And then there was their wedding. Something he could have done without. He would have been just as happy to have gone to the Ministry and signed the papers. But he could never deny Draco anything, and so he’d found himself standing by the teachers’ table of the Great Hall, Draco just across from him, surrounded by just about every acquaintance they had.

Alright, so maybe he was glad, in the end, that they did things Draco’s way. Hogwarts had been his home, the place where he’d found a family, the place where he’d met his best friends. It had also been the place he’d nearly lost it all. Where so many people had been lost, where many more had lost them. Maybe it was time some new happy memories were made at Hogwarts. For him, at least, he couldn’t imagine a sweeter ending to its chapter.

There were birthdays, always trying to one up the other, always pretending not to figure out the big surprise weeks before the actual event. There were anniversaries, which never turned out according to plan, but were just as wonderful anyway. There were other weddings to attend, Blaise had finally made it to the alter, a year late with a very fussy flower girl who looked just like her father sitting in the front row. There had been christenings to sit through, sometimes stand through as the lucky godparents. There was so much good.

There was the moment he first held James, and the knowledge that there wasn’t a single thing he wouldn’t do to protect him. In that instance, everything else disappeared, and it felt as though all of his life had been leading up to that one wonderful, indescribable hello. Later, Draco would recount how hard he cried, conveniently leaving out the fact that he had cried just as much.

His world had become unimaginably fuller, and even more so with every bundle of joy after, until Grimmauld Place was bursting at the seams. Then there were more and more birthdays and bigger holidays and every year the annual drop off at King’s Cross. There were fights over bedtime and negotiations just to get them to sit quietly through one meal. There was the struggle of finding babysitters just to have one night off a month. There were months when he swore he didn’t sleep at all, and yet…it was all worth it.

There were nights when he finally climbed into bed, and before falling into an exhausted sleep, managed to wonder just how his life had come to this. How many different roles he had played over the years, how many challenges and demands, how many hardships, and most importantly, how many wonderful things he’d been lucky enough to have. Strange, how things turn out.

Strange, confusing, magnificent, beautiful, and…perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed XO


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